


Ream Flash Pull

by BlueBerryOatmeal



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Bad Spelling & Grammar, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mild S&M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Not Beta Read, Older Dipper Pines, Pirate Bill Cipher, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Reference to Torture, Revenge Plot, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sky Pirates, Slow Burn, Steam Punk Inspired, Stockholm Syndrome, Violence, sorry - Freeform, stylized writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-17 22:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 129,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20628851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueBerryOatmeal/pseuds/BlueBerryOatmeal
Summary: Dipper had accepted the life planned for him. He was to be a doctor, successful, and fit for society as a young man should be. But he messed up, and was found in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now captured by pirates, Dipper has no choice but to escape. He was not going to let Bill Cipher, The One-Eyed Beast, use him to get revenge on his great uncle Ford.((Vaugely 1880-ish/not specific pocket universe timeline/steampunk/pirate AU that's more sexual fantasy than plot.))





	1. Chapter 1

His finger lightly ran along the edge of the shelf. Recently dusted and polished, the wood was now smooth and cool to the touch. Even the old worn out nicks and dents in the shelf felt buffed to perfection and he prided himself on a job well done.

Despite the large room feeling chilled, Dipper had worked himself up to a comfortable temperature to the point where he no longer needed the added layer of his jacket, and he had long set it aside over the back of a nearby chair. Outside the library the mid October air blew in strange gusts, shaking the trees bare long before the season's end. Even inside, the chill could be noticed if one idled long enough. The library had a boiler, even a warm fire place to help light it in the winter, but fuel was expensive and never used so early in the season. If it could be helped at all, it wouldn't be tuned on until long after the snow began to fall.

None of this was Dipper's choice of course. It was not his library to run, he merely looked after its upkeep without complaint.

Even now he sat on the floor, studying the clean shelves in front of him. Lit by the oil lamps hung on the walls, he cleaned the wood properly and returned each boom to its home once done. History, sciences, fiction, thin or thick. They all had a specific place and it was his job to make sure they were well kept and accounted for. Monotonous, tedious, irritating, yet he loved doing it. He could spend hours or even days riffling through each book and studying the words, memorizing diagrams and picture and grafts.

Dipper felt a shiver run up his spine. Despite the physical work, he did tend to feel the cold quite easily. He rolled down the sleeves he had pushed up to keep clean. The white material some how managed to stay dirt and polish free which he was happy about. However, his tweed grey waistcoat was spotted with dust and splattered stains. He could worry about those later. Or maybe not – Dipper really didn't care for the state of his clothes or the social mocking he would receive for stepping outside as he was. Instead he turned a book over to read the spine before placing it back on the shelf.

He was currently working through the vast nonfiction section of the library, modern science and history textbooks mostly. Dipper smiled to himself. He had read through the majority of these books when he was growing up. By the age of twelve he had gone through every fiction novel, novella and epic. By sixteen, he was well on his way through the science and medical catalogues. Now, at twenty, he was just working through the history books.

He never worried about running out of things to read. His great uncle Ford wrote two books for ever one he finished and that wasn't even including the collection his second great uncle Stan would bring back from his travels. Between the two, Dipper was set for life.

Ford and Stan were brothers, twins actually, who lead very different lives. And even though they were identical siblings, they couldn't be more opposite.

Stanford was studious, focused and a bit hard nosed. He rarely showed a sense of humour or physical affection, but did express pride and gratitude where it was fit to do so.

Stanley was very different, nomadic by nature, quick witted and acted without thinking which often lead to violent outcomes. Similarly to his brother Stan didn't show affection openly, but he had a soft spot deep down and could be persuaded into a hug by the right person.

Dipper loved them, he and his sister both did. After all, it felt so much like their uncles had raised them more than their own parents.

The library technically belonged to Ford despite how little he was there or seemed to care about it, but he owned the building and everything inside it. Dipper worked there on his own time, being paid with the occasional 'thank you' and some times a free meal. Dipper was honestly worried that if he didn't show up to clean and tend to the books the whole place would be ruined, becoming cluttered and mouldy. So, it wasn't that bad. Dipper would gladly live there if he could and survive off nothing.

Not that his parents approved. They had other plans for his future. Even after passionately expressing his own desire to be a librarian, Dipper was urged to become a doctor against his very vocal protests. No one listened to him. So, Dipper grew up being forced into classes he didn't care to take and study for a future he didn't want.

Their ambitions were understandable, even if Dipper didn't want to admit it. Apart from owning a factory, being a doctor was one of the highest paid positions in their society. They wanted him to get a good job, make something of himself, and leave their little town of Gravity Falls to go off and be successful in ways they themselves couldn't any more.

They - Dipper and his twin sister Mabel, together with their parents – use to live in California but moved he was a young teenager. Stocks slipped and some businesses went bankrupt. To avoid going broke completely, they could no longer stay living their old lives. Much to his mother's distress, they came to live in Gravity Falls. Dipper could hardly remember the cosmopolitan city, just the vague memories of the tall buildings, rich motor-vehicles and private airships.

He was plenty capable to remember it all, he was no simple idiot, he just didn't care enough to hold onto the memories and let them fade into the background of his thoughts. All Dipper thought of when California was brought up was the pollution and dependence on gold, coal and oil.

Gravity Falls was different and Dipper liked it more than anywhere else in the wold. Maybe it was naive thinking, after all, he had only lived in two places. Still, the small town had a lot going for it. It was so removed from the rest of the country that it felt like one all one its own. The small back woods town neighboured a bay which was full of fish. They used wind and water mills for power instead of solely relying on burning fuel. The town was simple, though most people would just say poor...

Or if you asked the locals, they would say the town was _special_.

As cute and humble as the idea may be, Dipper had come to realize that they were cured. Not by legitimate magic, there was no such thing, but the town just had a record of bad luck: storms, inexplicable fires, strange sightings of creatures in the woods, etc. Somehow, through all that, Dipper called it home.

Dipper picked up a very thinly bound book of at most sixty pages. He turned it over in his hand, feeling the soft bindings of what looked to be a journal. It was all hand written by his uncle, filled with notes and dates and small drawings. He must have seen the small journal before a hundred times yet never read it. For some reason curiosity made Dipper pause on the book today. He couldn't explain why.

He looked at the brown leather cover. It was soft with well protected edges. Age did not show on the book though Dipper knew it had to be years old. Etched into the cover was silver writing, clean sharp lines made from some kind of leather press. It read, the The One-Eyed Beast.

Dipper rolled his eyes, finding that a very dramatic title for Stanford to come up with. Curious, he opened the book to the first page.

“In my travels, I have never come across anyone quite like William Cipher...” Dipper's reading trailed off, pausing in muted shock. He stared down at the words, barely able to believe what he was seeing. His uncle had written a journal, with claims to have met, the infamous Pirate Captain William Cipher, the legendary One-Eyed Beast himself. But that was ridiculous, because Ford was a professor and scientist. When would he ever get tangled with pirates?

Besides, as far as Dipper was convinced, this pirate Captain was simple a myth. No one really knew who he was, where he had come from, or where any rumour started. The man was a story, some sort of phantom.

Dipper skimmed over the words written down in clean inked pen. It was an absolutely absurd. This had to be fake. Though a part of Dipper doubted his uncle could even write this as a joke. There seemed to be years of information, tracked over miles, oceans and accounts. Some passages were completed and others just ended like an unfinished thought. Dipper chuckled, not buying into any of this. His uncle wasn't one to believe in fictional pirates.

The things this man in particular had done, it was just not possible. While pirates were very much real, Dipper knew this. Criminals taking to sea and air to steal and murder... However, the things this Captain Cipher had done – claimed to have done – it was impossible.

Dipper flipped through a few pages, the odd word caught his eye here and there as he glanced over the notes. _'Gold', 'Arson', 'Blood-bath', 'Murder', 'Kidnapping'_.

Dipper lost his amused smile and he hummed with serious thought. It may all be a myth but it was a fascinating one, one no doubt romanticized hundreds of ways. He was guilty of it himself.

_'Vast Treasure'_

_'Buried men a live'_

_'Torture'_

_'Mutilation'_

Dipper grimaced and turned another page. By his age he was use to blood and injuries. Studying to be a doctor made him do some light travel to stay with surgeons and the like, witnessing terrible injuries and gallons of blood. It was vomit inducing at first and still made bile raise in his throat under some circumstances. He had even given someone stitches before, mild ones to clean up a carpentry mishap. This was all profession practice. Torture, intentional bodily harm, self mutilation and burning. That was sickening to think of.

No man would mutilate himself as way to swear loyalty to an insane blood thirsty Captain. The One-Eyed Beast and his crew of monsters...

Dipper looked over a little sketching of triangles. On one page there was a heavily detailed drawing of an airship pencilled in across the paper, loaded with cannons and engines. Dipper scoffed, nothing that heavy could fly. He wondered where all this nonsense had come from. It wasn't like Ford to believe in myths. His uncle believed in facts, tangible evidence.

The further Dipper got into the journal the more ludicrous it became. Ford seemed like a mad man spouting off nonsense. Even if it was all beautifully written and inked. Gold pen scribbling in embellishments to drawings.

On one of the last pages, Dipper paused. It was a portrait. The page on the left held notes of descriptive terms, shortly jotted down: blonde hair, wide cut smile, angular jaw. The drawing must have been based on them, he thought. He found himself shamelessly staring after a moment. The drawing was of a man, older than him but not aged. He looked angry, even with the large grin on his face. The charcoal used in the sketch made his eyes look so intense as if he were staring right back at Dipper.

Down one eye was a thin pencil marking, vertically drawn. Little scars were added in this way, dotting and cutting across the long nose bridge, separating an eyebrow, nicking away a portion of the jaw. His stomach felt like lead and he didn't know why.

The door to the library opened and closed without a sound. The little bell hung on the frame going mute to Dipper's senses. Even the heavy footsteps, thick soled boots on hard wood, barely registered in his ears. It wasn't until an odd shaped hand landed firmly on his shoulder that Dipper jumped. The journal snapped closed in his hands and dropped beside him, as if he had to hide it, caught looking at something secret.

Dipper almost fell over as he turned to look up over his shoulder. There in the lap light he was greeted by his great uncle looking back at him, startled himself. Dipper let out a nervous laugh and ran a hand through his permanently messy brown hair.

“Uncle Ford! Heh-heh...Hi,” he said, feeling childish and embarrassed. Dipper shoved the journal under his leg and turned his torso to better look up at the old man.

“Hello, Dipper.” Ford didn't sound suspicious or angry. Dipper always read while he worked.

All he did was smiled a little bit and patted Dipper's shoulder, his signature display of approval. “Don't you think it's a little late to be working?” The old man moved to take a seat at a near by desk and set down the bag he carried, ready to do some work of his own.

“I was just finishing up. I wasn't going to stay much longer.” Dipper put a few books back onto the shelf. He heard his uncle make a sound of acknowledgement but said nothing as he fell into his work.

They were quiet for a bit while Dipper tidied up the last shelf. He then stood, the journal still in hand. With a quick once over of the cover again he turned to Ford.

“Uhm... So Ford, I found this book actually. It was in the history section and I think it was in the wrong spot.” He joked awkwardly, patting the book against his hand.

“Hmm? Yes? Which book is that?” Ford didn't look at him when he asked.

“Uh... The One-Eyed Beast? About that pirate?” Dipper didn't notice Ford stiffen in his seat or how his uncle's hand stilled, gripping a paper too tight with his fingers making it crinkle and bend. “It should be in the fiction section right? I've hear the stories and it's a total myth. I mean, a pirate who can fly an airship through clear skies, during the day, and ransack towns with no warning? That's total fiction. It's impossible.”

“Dipper put it back where you found it and don't bring it up again,” Ford said lightly but firm. Dipper ignored it, continuing as he looked back at the book, opening to a random page.

“I didn't read it all, just some pages, pictures. It ridiculous, am I right?-”

“Dipper!” Ford barked at him, causing his nephew to jump again in surprise. “Put the book back and don't mention it to me again. This is the last we speak of it.”

His uncle had a quick temper but he didn't see what the problem was with asking about a book. Dipper moved the book, letting it fall to his side and out of sight. He was speechless as his uncle looked at him with a hard glance. It left Dipper feeling like a scolded child awaiting punishment for doing something bad. Ford frowned behind his thick glasses and watched as Dipper lowered himself back to the floor to put the journal back where it belonged on the shelf. Only then did he turn back to his paperwork.

Dipper kept up returning all the books to the shelf, casting a sideways glance toward the older man at the desk. Hesitant, Dipper reached out a hand and placed a finger on the book binding that held the journal. What was Ford so tense about? It was just a book written about some fantasy, and even if he were real, Cipher was just a man. Dipper pulled the book off the shelf and moved it behind his back before turning toward the desk. As carefully as he could, he tucked the book into the waistband of his trousers and tugged down the back of his vest to hide it.

“Well, uhm... all done, Uncle Ford.” Dipper clapped his hands together and smiled. “So, I'll be going. See you tomorrow.”

“Don't forget, tomorrow is the Northwest's annual gala. You've avoided it for two years but I want you to be there tomorrow night,” Ford said sternly. Dipper huffed in annoyance.

“Why do I need to go? Mabel with be there, and my parents. I don't like parties. I think I'd be better off at home instead of embarrassing myself being forced into dancing.”

“You're going. I promised your parents I'd convince you to go and I am telling you now. You're going.”

“But-”

“No buts, and no excuses. You will look presentable and you will go.” Ford pointed his pen at Dipper who just pouted at him. “You will act like an adult.”

“Yes, Ford.” Dipper couldn't keep the disobedient attitude out of his voice, or the roll from his eyes as he grabbed his coat from the chair where he left it. “I'll be there but I won't be happy about it.”

“I'm not asking you to be happy, I'm just telling you to go.”

Dipper groaned and did the buttons up on his light wool pea-coat. “Fine,” he said shortly and quietly left the library.

Stepping outside sent a stiff chill down his spine. He shivered and groaned to himself. It was only October yet the winter air was starting to come early this year. He wouldn't be surprised if it began to snow in the next few weeks.

Dipper adjusted the collar around his neck to keep out the breeze as he walked, and he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

The sun had already set and the street lamps were lit to lead him home along the cobbled stone walkway.

His home, a small apartment he rented out on his own, was dark when he arrived. No roommate, no pets, nothing but his own company. Dipper felt a little isolated but it was something he could call his own. The point of moving out, even after his parents insisted he stay home, was suppose to improve his independence and confidence. It was a little counter productive, leaving him lonely and shut off. Some times he wondered if he did it to himself, closing the door on friends and family, hiding away inside to be alone. He didn't know really...

Dipper locked the door for the night and left his coat by the door, on a metal peg that hung on the wall. He walked right through into the kitchen. There was no stove, but he did have a little pilot light and grate which was enough to boil some water. The only other thing in the room were just a couple cupboards that held some baked goods. He dropped his keys onto the counter. The quiet fell around him, weighing on his heart and left him physically tired from depression.

Dipper sighed and rubbed at his face. Maybe he should get a pet just so he was't coming home to nothing, a loyal dog or even an indifferent cat. Deep in his soul he wished to come back to a real home, warm with light and a smiling face that was happy to see him. Not an empty apartment and not his parent's house where he was only greeted with disappointment and disapproval.

“Oh...” Dipper pulled the book out from under his vest, some how forgetting about it until now. He looked it over, still curious as to why Ford was so tense on the subject. It was still ridiculous to him but whatever the reason, it didn't stop him from taking the book and he refuse to feel guilty. After all it was just a book. He was going to read it and return it before it was noticed missing.

Perhaps there would an answers for him somewhere in the short pages of the journal...

Dipper stayed up all night, reading and then rereading the journal that his uncle wrote. It was disturbing to say the least. Fascinating, if Dipper was being completely honest with himself. Pages upon pages of detail that Ford shouldn't know, couldn't possibly known.

The first entries, dating back years before Dipper was ever born, weren't even about Cipher himself. It was like Ford had started writing this journal on piracy as a whole, and it was chapters in before the Captain was even mentioned.

William, his first name, was written many times like he was just a man. The many monikers the pirate had cultivated were noted in footnotes and brushed over like they were nothing: Sky Devil, The Hell Hound, even The One-Eyed Beast. Apparently, depending on the story the name changed, but it was always the same man. Cipher, or rather William as Ford faithfully referred to him as, could fly in without warning and vanish like he never existed. Dipper frowned. No matter how fast an airship could travel, one simply could not disappear.

Ford theorized about all types of smoke and mirror, tricks to make an object vanish but nothing on that grand scale. He couldn't even think a stage magician could pull something like that off seamlessly.

As time drifted by, Dipper started to fall asleep in his armchair. Book still in hand, he lost himself in sleep and thoughts gave way to dreams of roguish pirates and daring sword fights. Even a toothy grin from a rugged blonde clouded his mind.

Morning drifted on, the sun streaming in through the widow at Dipper's back. Nothing woke him. He was too mentally and physically exhausted to bother with things like waking up. Hunger didn't rouse him or even the uncomfortable roll of his head against the armchair.

Hours passed until a groan passed his lips and he turned his face into the hard edge of the chair. Slowly Dipper lifted his head felt the tightness of his muscles kinking up the side of his neck. He gave a noise of discomfort and a face to match. Getting up made his joins crack and muscles pull. Sleeping in a chair wasn't the most restful and he had to stretch. Dipper blinked to let his eyes adjust. It was kind of dark for morning time. How long had he slept anyway?

Still wearing the clothes he had on the day before, Dipper reached into his vest and pulled out his pocket watch. His tired eyes snapped wide open seeing the position of the minute and hour hand. It was already past five in the evening and he should have been ready for the party by now, if not on his way there.

His parents would be furious if he didn't show up looking the perfect image of proper, as would his great uncle. Only great uncle Stan and Mabel would forgive him for missing the gala, as disappointed as Mabel would be once more.

Unable to believe he slept the day away, Dipper rushed to his closet to find his best suit. It might not be the fanciest or the richest, but it was his best. He laid it out, and faster than he had ever moved in his life, Dipper washed his face and stripped out of his day clothes to change.

The twenty-year-old had a thin body, tall and lanky, with pasty white skin which was dotted with dark freckles. He never minded those markings. The only one that bothered him were the ones on his forehead due to their size and deep colouring. The obvious, visible birthmark on his face resembling the large ladle of Ursa Major. It was embarrassing and hard to hide unless his bangs were grown out just so.

The rest of his appearance Dipper found to be bland and painfully average. No one seemed to disagree on the matter much either, finding him not ugly or unappealing but also not extraordinarily handsome.

Dipper pulled on a dark tan high-collared shirt and grey, almost black, trousers. The waistcoat was a matching grey, as was his outer coat, but the jacket had pin stripe embroidery on the lapel. He pocketed his watch and connected the chain to the jacket.

“Ah...hmm...” Dipper raised a brow, looking for his spats, the cream coloured ones with the silver buttons. They completed the suit but he'd placed them somewhere deep inside his closet and didn't know where they were now. His black dress shoes would have to do without them. “Forget it! I'm late.”

Dipper adjusted his jacket and hurried to leave, tripping on the small rug by his door. He would have fallen but he caught himself against the hallway's wall. He stopped there remembering about Ford's journal. It was still on the armchair where he left it. He should return it before the party. With how his uncle was acting, Dipper wouldn't have put it passed Ford to check to see if it was back where it belonged on the shelf. So the sooner he could slip it back in place the better.

Dipper quickly checked the time on his watch. The time was flying by and he was already late. But he signed, making up his mind to grab the book.

Once in his had Dipper rushed out of his apartment and the building all together. What was a few extra minutes when he was already late?

He practically ran through town, bouncing around carts and horses. It seemed like everyone was heading to Northwest Manor, all traffic heading toward him and blocking his way. Occasionally he apologized for dodging in front of a cart and waved off the angry drivers.

Crossing the road put him closer to the library which was coming into view a few blocks a head. Dipper felt relieves as he bound along the cobble stone street and skidded over the curb. With a little bit of luck, Ford would already be at the party, leaving the library empty for him to sneak the book back. If he were lucky.

Dipper almost made it to the library's door when his name was yelled out to him from near by,

“Dipper!”

The familiar voice made him come to a complete stop, dress shoes slipping on the stones with their minimal traction. Again, he almost fell but regained some balance with a swing of his arms. He spun around on his toe to find his oldest friend, Wendy, walking along the street across from him. He heals clicked on the stone, echoing through the quickly emptying street.

Wendy stepped off the curb and crossed to join Dipper on his side of the road.

The two of them had always been close friends, but Dipper had to admit he use to have such a crush on her. And was there any reason as to why? Even tonight Wendy was stunning. She looked dressed to the nines in her emerald green dress-coat, embellished with a gold hem and black buttons. A tight black waist cincher made her look so slim and tall. She'd always been beautiful with her long red hair and confident attitude. Wendy held herself with poise and assertion that Dipper could ever even dream of possessing.

“Wendy? Hi...” Awkwardly Dipper fidgeted, itching to get inside without being asked too many questions, but he also didn't want to seem up to anything.

“Where are you going? The party's this way.” Wendy trust her thumb in the direction she was heading prior.

“Oh, uh...” Dipper gripped the book tighter to his side. “Yes, I know it is but-I was just-You see-”

“No, you're not going to work. We've got a party to get to.” Wendy grabbed his free arm and tugged him along the road. Despite how Dipper wanted to protest and object to being manhandled down the road, he couldn't find it in himself to do so. He spinelessly let himself be dragged away from the library, pouting and anxiously biting his tongue.

Dipper looked at her. He remembered being dwarfed by her height when he was young. Now, even in heels, they were at eye level. She smiled at him, and it warmed his heart to see how genuine it was. Wendy usually smiled in a sarcastic kind of way but this was different. She was happy.

“What?” Wendy asked catching Dipper's eye. She raised an eyebrow and smirked at the embarrassed pink spreading over Dipper's cheeks. “Do I look bad? Something on my face?”

“No, of course not. I was-uhm... Looking at your jewellery,” Dipper said hastily and quickly looked at her ear where there was an intricately wrapped metal casing with thinly linked silver chains dangling down long enough to drape over her shoulder.

“Really? I thought it was a bit too much,” She offered out in false modesty.

“No, it looks great. You look great. Us together like this, you look a million times better than I do. I'm just _blah,_ you know?”

Wendy looked him over, able to agree that while Dipper looked sharp, he didn't stand out. She suddenly stopped and fiddled with her ear cuff. Without asking for permission she grabbed his face to hold him still and clipped the metal around one of his ears. The chains tinkled together like bells in his ear as Wendy flattened them over his broader built but thin shoulder.

“There, that will help distract everyone from noticing you don't have any other jewellery, or even a tie.”

“Ah shit!” Dipper scrunched his eyes closed, breathing sharply through his nose. He forgot to put on a tie. He was suppose to look proper for once. Groaning he scrubbed his palms over his face and ruffled his hair.

“Don't worry about it,” she smacked him lightly before continuing to pull him along by the elbow. “You look really fancy now. You'll catch a wife like that.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You know that won't happen.”

They snickered, knowing neither of them would ever marry – for different reasons. Wendy out of choice, and Dipper because...well, he was Dipper. Who would want him?

Before they got to the party Dipper managed to discreetly slip the journal under his jacket and into the waist band of his trousers. It pressed against his lower back snugly, held in place by his belt. It wasn't uncomfortable and as long as no one touched his lower back no one should notice it. He could pretend it wasn't there for a few hours. He'd just have to remember to return it in the morning, bright and early. No dilly-dallying.

As the two friends arrived, they were welcomed by the warm, brightly lit mansion lobby its doors held open for guests. People moved about freely, greeting each other and taking off in groups to dance or eat, drink and socialize. Music could be heard drifting in from another room. The scent of melted chocolate and roast meats wafted about the air, becoming the most appealing perfume Dipper could smell.

He made his way over the tiled floor, hoping to blend in and go unnoticed for as long as possible. Within second Wendy noticed her other friends, whom she did not share with Dipper. After a quick apology she took off and Dipper was on his own to try and become one with the curtains.

He hugged the wall as he moved about. Too many people moved about him, blocking him from general view. For the better half of the first hour, he had only nodded in greeting to a handful of people. It was wonderful. Until...

“Mason!” came the call of his real name made Dipper cringe. He hated his real name. It was a formality of these types of events and he was in for a night of it. It was either that or 'Mr. Pines'. Dipper turned around to see Ford cross the crowded room of the Northwest's lobby. Dipper blinked rapidly and stood up straight, squaring off his shoulders and holding his hands behind his back.

“Uncle Ford,” he said politely, acting innocent. The old man came over, looking stern but thankfully not angry. Maybe he didn't know about the missing book yet and was just upset at him for being late.

“No tie...No spats...Hair a mess...but you showed up, good. Your parents will be glad to see you've arrived,” he said with mild criticism. Ford himself was dress in a proper three piece suit and tie. It was a nice, if not odd, change from his usual high collared shirt, suspenders, and occasional vest.

“Yes, I'm sure they will. I will even dance with Mabel if that will keep them happy, and quiet, for another year.” His way of wanting his mother and father to shut up and get off his case about socializing and possibly getting married to a good girl from a respectable family. And by _respectable_ they meant rich.

No one needed to rush Mabel into that kind of thing. She would aggressively flirt with anyone who looked at her twice. It gave her a bit of an unsavoury reputation being called desperate and shameless. But Mabel was harmless, more so spirited and persistent.

“I'm sure... They are in the ballroom, last I saw. Now, don't get drunk or do anything else stupid, kid.”

Ford meant well, truly. Dipper had to remind himself of that. He could be harsh and some times give the wrong impression with what he said, but he meant well. So Dipper nodded at his uncle, acknowledging the advice given to him.

They parted ways casually, conversation ending there. Dipper wandered off, sliding along the wall feeling out of place and awkward. He'd lost all sight of Wendy and hadn't come across anyone else he really knew. It was a large party and he felt he could get lost easily among the well dressed guests.

Dipper decided it was too crowded for his liking and he was getting tugged into a deep sea of ball gowns and suits. The music play constantly, mixing with loud enthusiastic chatter. It was too loud. He really wasn't the type of person for parties. He didn't even mind being social, not really. But this was too much. Dipper felt overwhelmed and suffocated.

Finally, after what felt like hours of searching, Dipper found a familiar face in the crowd. A grateful smile broke out on his face seeing his sister talking with one of their hosts, Pacifica Northwest. Dipper waved a little, catching Mabel's attention. She stopped talking when she saw him and without even a goodbye, Mabel broke away from her conversation mid sentence. Pacifica turned to watch her walk away on her. A put out expression crossed her face before she frowned in Dipper's direction. Dipper smiled apologetically at her but quickly ducked his head.

Quickly Mabel flounced over to where Dipper stood by himself, her fluffy brown hair bobbing around in the ringlets she had probably spent all afternoon curling into her hair. She gave him a big hug, arms wrapping around his shoulders. She came up to her brother's nose in height now. They hugged, a moment of sincere sibling affection.

The instant she let him go however she started talking a mile a minute about her dress and her handmade jewellery made out of wires and buckles and beads and links, obviously proud of herself. Dipper just smiled and nodded, catching every fifth word or so.

“Oh I like this,” Mabel said reaching up to play with the cuff hugging Dipper's ear. “You're like a true lady now.”

“Yeah, it's actually Wendy's. She forced it on me,” he said shyly looking away. Perhaps it was too feminine for him to being wearing in public.

“Well, I think it suits you.” She waited expectantly, smiling. But after a minute and her brother had yet to say anything, Mabel pouted and smacked his arm. “And?” She stressed, gesturing to her outfit.

“What?”

“How do I look?”

“Oh! Sorry. Well... you look...” Dipper looked at her to admire the pink dress, with all the ruffles and embroidery she could stitch to an article of clothing. “You look lovely,” he finally said, after making her wait for the complement. It was funny to him if no one else, and it earned him another light punch to the arm in reprimand. He didn't mind that either.

As Dipper promised Ford, he did have a dance or two with his sister, one with Wendy because she thought it'd be fun to try and bump into other dancers on purpose but act like it was an accident. Dipper even shared a dance with his mother without argue. They all appreciated his efforts to have a good time and not complain so much.

There were many genuine laughs shared between himself and his few friends, and even a few drinks. All proof that Dipper could be social and not 'a downer' as people called him. A part of him actually wanted to say the part was in fact fun, and he was glad he came after all. Until one glass of champagne too many, tallying grand total up to three, and the room was going slant while his head throbbed. He excused himself for some air before he said something stupid or did anything embarrassing.

Dipper used the wall of windows along the ballroom to find the open door to the gardens outside. Or perhaps he feel through an open window. Either way, Dipper filled his lungs with the cool, crisp night air and relaxed. The large porch and garden area was lit by oil hanging lamps that lined walls around a simple hedge maze. Apparently, there were viscous peacocks hiding inside. Thankfully he didn't trip over one as he tried to find a bench in a quiet corner. Pecked to death by a peacock was not how he wanted to go.

From the distance music could still be heard, but the loud voices and sounded were much lower forming a soft murmur that could be ignored like crickets in summer.

It was much better outside. The air was cool on Dipper's face. It felt amazing as the subtle breeze tickled his too hot cheeks. Dipper tried to keep his eyes open, focused up toward the stars. Closing them left his head feeling bubbly with alcohol. Curse that deliciously sweet drink.

He lost track of time, gazing up towards the heavens in uninterrupted thought. Dipper didn't think about how long it had been until his fingers were starting to ache from the cold and a shiver ran down his back. He let out a breath watching the clouds roll in quickly, which was strange because there was barely any wind that night and the clouds had been practically none existent moments ago. Within minutes they blocked out the stars and the moon's soft white glow. Dipper hummed drunkenly. Maybe his earlier prediction about snow was right after all. He chuckled to himself. He wouldn't care if it snowed anyway.

After a few more minutes Dipper started to feel better. He stood up and walked in a little circle, getting his blood flowing again. He decided that his was a good of time as any to call it a night. He had already stayed much longer than intended. No one could argue that. Everyone much be happy with him. A chilled walk home would sober him up the rest of the way. After that, all he would need would be a good nights sleep.

Dipper tracked back through the hedge maze. He followed the music and loud conversations. It made for a good indicator that he was going the right way.

Then the music ended and there was the sound of breaking glass. There was a scream from inside, immediately followed by another and then another. Not thinking, Dipper dove forward along the path, breaking into a sprint for the ballroom.

As he ran for the opened doors, countless people pushed to get by. He would have moved aside if he could, but they crushed him in their own rush to get out. He was bumped and shoved from side to side and almost stepped on.

Dipper fell against the rough brick of the garden's wall. People screamed and panicked, running in circles in the garden. But there was no where to go from the gardens, only back inside. The squared off hedge maze had tall walls surrounding it that couldn't be climbed easily. So people continued to scream and some cried for help. Dipper didn't see his parents or his sister in the frenzy. He pushed off the wall, determined to find them.

His shoes slid on the smooth tiled as he burst into the ballroom. The room was in disarray, tables turned and champagne spilt. Just beyond the room, the halls of Northwest Manor were engulfed in flames. There was no way out of this room but to flee out into the gardens, but that was just another trap.

Dipper watched as the thick smoke started to roll into the ballroom. An accident, this had to be a terrible accident. He may have been more shocked, but confusion over took him completely seeing the room empty except for his great uncles standing their ground in the centre of the floor. They weren't running or trying to extinguish the fire. They looked like they were waiting for something to happen. That was ridiculous. Dipper moved towards them, cautious of the broken glass at his feet. He was about to call out to them when the flames grew bigger at the entrance, bringing down the large double doors from their hinges.

Ford pulled something from his overcoat and held it close to his side, Stan was already in a similar position but still casually smoking a cigarette. The object caught the light and reflected it back. Dipper's attention went to it instantly because he knew what it was. It was a gun, a long barrelled hand gun.

He gasped for air, not noticing how he held his own breath. Dipper stumbled back over an upturned table. The legs knocked at his shins. He stumbled and had to hold the table so to not fall. Dipper breathed heavily, afraid and frozen in place.

Dipper watched as his uncles did. Beyond the flames in the hall people screamed. A gun shot could be heard echoing off the marble.

Then, out from the fire, as if the heat didn't burn, strode a small group of men. That is, they looked like men. Each one was misshapen and disfigured in different ways. Some were scared from knives or previously burned leaving cratering callouses ridges in their skin. Chunks of skin missing. Crude scar tissue twisted and puckered from rushed stitching after injury. A few had metal limbs to replaced ones lost. Others were simply missing parts, an ear, fingers of varying lengths, eyes or teeth.

They moved to flank the door, numbers splitting down the middle. They kept close watch over the two me standing in the centre of the ballroom. They drew their weapons, swords, guns, all for show to distil fear.

Entering after them, strolling through the fire, was a tall intimidating man of height and power. He walked in like royalty, head high and proud from under his wide rimmed captain's hat. The air about him demanded attention or else.

He was sharply dressed in mostly black, with boots that looked freshly polished. His coat was a mix of black and bright yellow, hemmed with breaded designed and set with gold buttons. Under his coat, not meant to be concealed, were many straps and buckles holding knives against his body, multiple guns shining and no doubt loaded. God only knew what was hiding under the thick material of that coat, what violently sharp knife or fire arm, explosive or mechanism that could leave a man dead before he could blink.

Dipper's heart felt like it stopped beating as the man smiled. It was a toothy grin, stretching out over his face wider than should be able. He recognized such a smile. It was the man from the journal, in shockingly accurate detail. The parted and slicked back blonde hair, the tanned skin, and angular jaw. The nicks and scars adorning his face. It was him.

The only thing different was the eye patch hiding what was once, Dipper could only assume, his right eye.

The pirate grinned at the older men with familiarity and almost sounded pleased with himself as he spoke in a smooth, inflected baritone.

“Hi-ya, Fordsie. You miss me?”


	2. Chapter 2

The pirate grinned at the older men with familiarity and almost sounded pleased with himself as he spoke in a smooth, inflected baritone.

“Hi-ya, Fordsie. You miss me?”

Dipper's attention snapped to his uncle who remained motionless next to Stan. Neither made any sign of backing down. Ford only tensed, keeping his gun tucked away in the fold of his coat, out of sight from the pirates.

In his journal, Ford never admitted to knowing the mythical Captain personally but he should have known better due to the sheer amount of detail. It would be the only reasonable explanation for such a thing. This however, did not make the seen before him any more believable. Dipper couldn't even begin to wrap his mind around the reality of piracy and any connect it had to his great uncle. All he could manage to do as stare wide eyed at the group of men, unsure of what to do or if a full breath would ever come to him again.

“William Cipher...” Ford said coolly, somehow not seeming phased by the situation at hand. He acted like there weren't pirates, that the mansion wasn't on fire, that black smoke wasn't slowly filling the room around them. Instead, Ford sounded no more put out than if he'd run out of his favourite tea. “I had hoped you were dead by now...”

“Oh, don't worry. I'll out live you by decades. So, Hey! Why not start that tonight,” the pirate responded.

Ford was clearly only half listening, muttering to himself, “I left you to die-”

“And you did a terrible job at it!” Cipher interrupted, his tone sharp with sarcasm. His smiled never dropped though, warmly greeting Ford like it was a pleasant thing meeting after a long time apart. “I think it hurts my feelings more knowing you ran away. You didn't even want to watch me die. After all that effort, you didn't want to see the pay off? ...or were you too scared to see blood on your own hands? Hey, nice gun. Are you going to use it this time?”

Ford stiffened, letting the gun he held slip back into full view after his attempt to conceal it clearly failed.

Cipher smoothly gripped the lapel of his coat and held it open to expose his broad chest, offering a clear target and every opportunity for someone to shoot. He waited a moment but when no one moved he continued, “No? Come on, Ford. Take the shot. Take the shot you couldn't take fifteen years ago.”

“You were a kid-”

“I was twenty, if not older-don't really remember actually. Not that it should matter. I was an adult. No different from anyone else.” Cipher clicked his tongue and let his coat fall closed. He took a second to sigh and shrug it off. There was something in his dramatic gesturing, showing his empty hands for the two men, like he was admitting to being unarmed when there was a whole artillery strapped to his person. “I'm disappointed in you, but not surprised at all. You did always need proper motivation to get anything done. And threatening _your_ life is really worthless to try... So, let's see, what would it take for you to try and kill me? Hmmm... _Maybe - _perhaps - the lose sudden and tragic loss of your brother.”

Cipher didn't even blink. He flicked his wrist, sliding a small concealed hand gun from his sleeve, firing as the smooth handle met his hand.

The shot was deafeningly loud in the large room, echoing off the high ceiling and smooth tiles. There was a scream but all Dipper heard was Ford's cry for his brother. They both watched as Stan fell. Dipper could feel tears start to wet his cheeks.

Stan lay on his side, hand going to squeeze at his wound. The bullet had been off slightly and struck his shoulder. Blood quickly soaked through his jacket making the dark fabric wet and sticky. With every movement, more blood came forth. It coated the hand he had held over the bullet hole. Red oozing through his fingers and dripped lazily onto the floor. Stan grunted and ground his teeth in pain.

Ford's attention was glued to Stan on the floor. His gun shook in his grip, fighting the urge to use it.

“Still nothing?” Cipher asked before seriously taking aim, this time pointing his smaller hand gun for Stan's head.

Dipper couldn't stop himself. Seeing his uncle fall, seeing all the blood broke whatever spell he'd fallen under. Panic rouse inside him and he screamed, calling out for Stan.

The room fell still. Dipper slapped a hand over his mouth, realizing what he'd done. Everyone was looking at him with a mix of expressions, making him regret everything he'd ever done to get him to this point. He should have run like the others, should have left when he had the chance. Now he was going to die. Dipper could see it on Ford's fear stricken face.

His uncle was only now noticing he was there. Neither he nor Stan saw him come in. Dipper could see the colour draining from Ford's face as their eyes met. He tried though, Ford tried to hold it together, to not show weakness even if it was for Dipper's sake.

Ford turned away from his nephew, wanting to draw the attention back and direct it entirely on himself, hoping that Dipper could get away safely. He stepped in front of his brother to shield him from Cipher's aim. Hand firm on the gun, he held it high to point it for the pirate's chest.

Even though he moved and had a perfect shot, Cipher wasn't paying him any mind. And that was a problem. Ford knew that the man's eye was trailing the boy behind him. He noticed the twitch of his lip and the light chuckle Cipher gave. He hated to think of what was going through Cipher's head regarding his nephew, all the violent and cruel intentions he could have.

“Cipher, I swear to God, leave him-”

“Grandson? Oh who am I kidding, what woman would want you?” The pirate mocked him. His eye flicked back to Ford. “What is it going to take, Ford? And here I thought you wanted me dead. After everything we went through, I kind of hoped walking in here would be like signing my death certificate. I went out of my way to track you down, all so we could finish what you started. Are you really going to disappoint me again?”

Ford willed his hand not to shake. He repeated himself more forcefully, with more of a threatening tone. “Cipher, I swear, leave him alone or I will make sure you die. You will die a slow a painful death. Or better yet, hung, legally. Wouldn't that be an insult to your name...”

Apparently it would be, because that caught the pirate's full attention. Cipher's lip twitched at the very idea. The smile fell slightly only on one side.

Ford only gave him a level glare in return, promising every word he had said silently.

Cipher tossed his small gun aside, dramatically out of reach. For a split second Ford's eye followed the little movement. It was all that was needed for Cipher to pull a second from the holster at his hip. He carelessly shot Ford in the leg.

Within second the two brothers lay on the polished floor in a heap, blood pooling to form a thick red puddle beneath them.

Cipher chuckled with a strange sense of glee, insanely pleased with himself. He stepped forward, circling the two and admiring his handy work. With the tip of his book he kicked Ford's gun away, just in case the man got any ideas about shooting him in the back. He was having too much fun to let the old geezer have a chance at retaliation. He looked down at Ford and smiled, tilting his head to one side.

Ford had his teeth bared, looking like an injured animal, ready to claw his skin apart. It was a nice change from the prideful, self-important looked he was use too. He was finally able to wipe that expression off his face. Cipher used the heel of his boot to press down on Ford's injured leg. The man screamed.

“You're going to love this part, Fordsie,” Cipher said bending forward to talk in a quiet voice. “Grab the kid.”

His men moved without any further prompt to do so. One pirate took off at a sprint across the ballroom and was at Dipper's side before he could get himself untangled from the upturned table.

Dipper flipped backwards over the table leg, feet going up over his head. He could head Ford screaming for him to get away. And he did what he could. He tried to get up, tried to run. Arms flailed like he could pull himself to safety. Dipper dragged himself from the table. Then hands were on him, pulling him by the coat and hair, forcing him to stand when his legs would not hold him. Dipper kicked and cried for help, but there was nothing he could do as he was practically carried across the floor.

“Mason!” Ford called, heart crying out with desperate need to protect his nephew. “No-Cipher! Let him go!”

“Fucking bastard!” Stan hollered.

Dipper was dropped at the Captain's feet. His limbs shook and buckled, sending Dipper to his knees. A large calloused hand on his shoulder held him still. Tears blurred his vision but Dipper blinked them back. He wanted to hunch over low, wanted to hide, but he held himself up and looking to his uncles. He was so sorry and hoped they knew.

“Mason, huh? Okay.” Cipher hummed and looked down at the young man. From the high angle, all he saw was messy brown hair that had a slight curl and the tops of cold, pink ears. The slim body he had was shaking uncontrollably from fear, curling in on itself on the floor. It was an amusing sight.

The Captain extended his arm and pressed the barrel of his gun to the boy's head, lightly applying pressure.

Dipper's heart stopped. The room around him seemed to fall into a muted haze. Ford was screaming, pleading. Beside him even Stan looked to be doing the same. But all Dipper could hear was a buzz in his ears. He felt dizzy, like he could pass out. He was going to die here. This was it...

“Fordsie, what the hell are you saying? Bargaining. Pleading. We're way passed that. You had your chance.” The pirate shook his head with disapproval. “So, _Mason_, any last words before your brains splatter across the marble?”

The boy hiccuped a cry and whimpered something under his breath. The pirate looked at him, at first annoyed but he humoured the kid, stepping closer and bent down to take a knee. Cipher laid the side of the gun against Dipper's face and used it to rub his cheek, wiping away a tear with mock sympathy. He cooed soothing words before taking hold of his chin roughly to lift his face. Now he could have a good look at the kid moments before death.

Cipher's hard stare was met by a pair of deep dark chocolate eyes, shining bright and glossy with thick tears. The boy's face was rounded but slim at the jaw, and was a panicked shade of bright red. His nose and cheeks were dotted and framed with noticeable freckles. Over all, he was a cute young thing. Maybe not a jaw dropping, heart stopping looker, but a cute little doll none the less. He was almost sad to shoot him, to be responsible for draining the pink from his face and leave the kid grey and cold. He'd almost hate to see the warm chocolate eyed fade and die.

Cipher lifted the gun away from the kid's face and pondered for a second. _Mason_ didn't look a whole lot like his uncles but there was a family resemblance in their bone structure, particularly their nose bridge and brow.

He mapped out Dipper's face in his mind committing every detail to memory, from the number of freckles on his left cheek to the small age old scar on his chin. Cipher tilted his head to look at him from different angles. No, the boy wasn't stunning or anything, but he wasn't bad to look at. There was nothing immediately special about him but Cipher couldn't quiet look away either.

Cipher popped his lips, breaking the silence and stood up again, letting the kid's face drop from his grasp.

“Well, I made up my mind. The boy's coming with up. Guys, we got our selves a new hostage. Best behaviour gents. Treat him with care.” Cipher returned his gun to its place on his hip and clapped his hands together. “That means no eating him.”

Cipher saw out of the corner of his good eye the way those doe like brown eyes grew impossibly bigger. He grinned, amused that he took his joke seriously – no one was going to eat him. They weren't allowed to do that to hostages. This kid was going to be a riot, if they kept him around long enough that is.

Turning back to the two old brothers he bowed, tipping his hat before giving them a gentlemanly apology. “Sorry to dash like this and all, but we really must be going. Try not to worry yourselves, we'll take real good care of the kid. And hey, if you two don't bleed out all over the floor you might get to see him again some day. Ha-ha-ha! Look who's leaving who to bleed out now! Sound familiar?”

Cipher turned, fixing his hat as he casually strolled toward the wall of black smoke and flames that took over the doorway. He fearlessly stroke into the inferno like a brazen devil.

One of the other pirated snatched a hold of Dipper, wrapping his arms tightly around the thin fragile boy that wouldn't stop wriggling and shaking. Dipper yelled at the top of his lungs, cried and begged. He fought back but was held tighter. As he was pulled along,he was turned close against the dirty clothes the pirate wore as he was shielded from the fire that threatened to burn him alive. Beyond the crackle of flames, he could still hear Ford.

“Mason! No! Stop! Bill!!”

Even bleeding from a bullet wound, Ford wouldn't stay down. He pulled himself across the floor, coughing on smoke as he yelled over and over.

Stan rolled over and grabbed him by the pant leg before Ford could be stupid and make an attempt to crawl through a burning building after heavily armed pirated.

“Ford! We'll get him back,” Stan said through his own pain. He didn't fully believe it himself, but he said it as a promise to his brother. No, he didn't believe it at all... Stan swallowed his guilt, watching the shadows of the pirated disappear in the smoke. Knowing full well that they would likely never see their nephew in one piece ever again.

The heat, the weigh of the smoke... It was dark and suffocating. Dipper struggled against his better judgement, instincts for survival going every which way. He wasn't a fighter by nature and everything in his body was urging him to run, to break free and run as fast as he could. But the strong arms around him wouldn't budge, keeping him locked in place against his will.

They made their way down the hallway, ignoring the vast wealth around them, not grabbing for paintings before they caught fire, no silver was taken or anything of value – just a young man of no significance other than a relation to Ford.

A large hand half covered Dipper's face, doing an abysmal job at protecting him from the smoke. Dipper coughed and wheezed, his lungs burning in his chest. He kicked out a leg only to have the flames lick at his pant leg and skin of his ankle. He stilled then, afraid to catch fire himself, and allowed himself to be roughly carried away. The last thing Dipper saw before he closed his eyes tight was the bright yellow of a jacket.

They were rushed along by the angry call of the pirate's commands but Dipper could make out very little. A door was kicked open and the crew piled into a large, dark room that had not yet been touched by the fire. The fresh air hit Dipper's dry lungs. He coughed and gasped, turning away from the hand held over his mouth. He cracked an eye open, cautious about where they had come to a stop.

It was the Northwest's library. It was three, if not four times as large as the one Dipper worked in. Full of different types of books, some written in foreign languages, some that were so big Dipper probably wouldn't be able to carry them. Dipper had been in this library a few times before, under strict supervision by the Northwest's staff. Not that he would ever steal anything... or get away with it.

The lights had all been put out, since this room was off limits during the party. The only light coming in was from the large floor to ceiling windows that let in what little moonlight there was in the sky. One of the windows had the curtains pulled back. Its glass was shattered in large pieces across the rug from where it had been broken. The cold breeze came in, barely rustling the heavy velvet curtains. Looking around, Dipper accidentally met the amused look of the pirate Captain.

Cipher chuckled as he turned immediately away. He strode over to the open window. There was a self satisfied manner to the way he walked, long strides and head held high.

As much as Dipper didn't want to risk a second look, he couldn't stop himself from spying on the pirate when his back was turned. Dipper didn't trust him even then and was highly aware of every little movement the man made. He watched as the man leaned out the window, making a quick movement with an arm. After that, he turned sharply and marched right up to where Dipper was being held. Quickly Dipper turned his face down, not lifting his face even when the toes of Cipher's boots came into view.

The Captain straightened up. He held out his hands and snapped a low, “give him to me.” Without question, Dipper was passed into the awaiting hands like some kind of object.

The young man was like a rag-doll, weak kneed and fragile in his hands. Cipher held him up right and gripped his upper arm tightly, not letting him sink to the ground. Whether the kid could walk on his own or not, he pulled him over the floor toward to the window. He was alright with dragging a body. Their feet crunched over the broken glass as they went, the kid tripping on folds in the rug.

“You're gonna wanna hold on to me kid, wouldn't want my hand to slip,” Cipher said with a smirk.

The meaning behind his words was lost on Dipper's disoriented mind. He just stared wide eyed and confused at the pirate until he was tugged in close to a broad chest, an arm looping around his hips. Dipper dumbly grabbed onto the waistcoat under his palms but not tightly. He really didn't want to touch the man at all.

There was the sudden sound of clanging metal, like a crane or pulley system being jump started, jangling and banging. He hadn't noticed in the dark until movement caught his attention. There was a metal ladder hanging outside the window that went straight up. The ladder was being retracted as he watched. The crew rushed passed them grabbing and beginning to climb, like they would be left behind if not on board in time. And that was more than likely true.

Dipper was curious to see how far the ladder extended but refuse to give into such a thought. He stood his ground on the rug, rooted in place. Not that it did him much good. Cipher moved them, grabbing the chains with a free hand and placing a boot across the linking runner. The retracting chains did all the work after that, lifting the two of them off the windowsill and into the outside air.

The arm around his waist did tight securely enough to hold him but Dipper jumped with alarm. His arms shot out to wrap around the pirate's neck. His fingers dug and grabbed onto his coat, scrabbling at his back and shoulders for safety. Dipper ignored how their bodies pressed close together. He just closed his eyes and prayed not to fall.

Dipper didn't know how long he could hang on like this. His arms were far weaker than the pirate's.

Cipher snickered in his ear, louder than the rushing air that passed them. “Step onto the runner,” he teased.

Dipper didn't want to open his eyes. His foot blindly felt out for the metal chains. They bent under his shoe when he found it. It bounced, taking his weight easily. The arm around his ribs was still secure and strong, showing no sign of giving out. It disturbed Dipper how much power Cipher held over his life with one arm. It also calmed his fears. His heart was still erratically pounding in his chest, but his limbs relaxed enough to no longer tremble.

Finally, he couldn't stop himself any longer. Dipper blinked his eyes and risked looking down. He expected to pass out from fear alone but Dipper was actually struck with awe. He'd never seen Gravity Falls from suck a view. It took his breath away from sheer amazement. He turned his gaze away from the fires belong them, looking out over the tree line, seeing the lake bathed in moon light. The way it rippled and shone. The higher they were pulled, the less real everything appeared, resembling an unbelievably accurate scaled model of his home.

Soft moisture brushed across Dipper's cheek, misting around them. He looked around, letting out a light breath. _Clouds_, Dipper thought, astonished. A brief, very small smile touch Dipper's mouth. He reached out with a hand to touch the clouds. The light grey mist dissipated under his finger tips. They had no feel other than cold and wet, like a chilled steam.

“I wouldn't let go yet, kid,” Cipher said, watching as Dipper played with the clouds. His voice took the kid out of his wonder and dazed state. Hands came back to ball in the fabric of his jacket.

The airship came closer over head, crew from inside helping lift them to safety. Cipher moved them back, keeping his captive close to his side. His fingers curled around the boy's sharp hip bone in an all too familiar manner. It made the brunette make the most amusing noises, whimpering like no one had ever touched him before.

Cipher smiled at his crew, dismissing them with a wave. He felt pride over what he'd done tonight, enough to put a spring in his step. True, Stanford may not be dead yet, his plans being altered by a spur of the moment decision, but this was promising to be far more fun.

The crew let their captain pass, hostage in tow. They cheered, laughed and slung crude comments at Dipper's expense. The kid blushed, awkwardly letting himself be lead away from the group of grotesque pirates. Only one man stepped forward from the crowd. He quickly fell into step beside Cipher. This man wasn't burned or scared to disfiguring lengths. He didn't even look like a pirate, in the fictional sense or otherwise. Actually, to Dipper, he looked ordinary. The two made quite the pair, standing out against the company of bizarre sailors. He was equal in height to his captain, with dark well groomed hair and a more simple choice in clothing. If Dipper had seen him strolling through Gravity Falls, he wouldn't have batted an eye.

Dipper turned his head down to not be caught staring, choosing to only overhear what was being said. There wasn't much else he could do as he was pulled down a poorly lit metal hallway. Pipes creaked about them, hissing coming from vents.

“Successful I take it?” the second man asked. He outright eyed Dipper, not bothering to be discrete about it.

“More or less,” Cipher replied with a chipper tone.

“Then Ford is-”

“Alive.”

“Alive?” The man raised a brow and slightly turned his head to look at his captain, clearly surprised but capable of holding back any emotional reaction. One could not just second guess their captain.

“For now,” Cipher corrected. “Meet his young nephew.”

“I see... So the Pines family tree expanded a few generations...”

“By a few branches. Pine Tree,” Cipher snickered to himself loudly. The man beside him didn't laugh or even crack a smile. “Lighten up, Tad. Your face will freeze that way. Oh wait, it already did.”

The man, Tad, rolled his eyes at his Captain's childish teasing. They came to a large metal door at the end of the hall. Tad moved forward, pulling a large handle across the door to unbolt the lock. It needed a solid push for the heavy door to swing open. Tad gave a small grunt under the weight of the couple inch thick, solid metal. He stepped through the frame and moved aside for his captain to follow.

Cipher shoved Dipper in first, keeping a hand on his should. It was a jail, plain and simple. The room was square and looked clean, practically unused. No more than three barred cells, all vacant, that held nothing more than a cot each.

Dipper glance over at Tad then at Cipher. The hand on his shoulder loosened. As it eased up, Dipper took the chance and jerked his body roughly. The fabric of his coat came free of the pirate's fingers. He stumbled back a foot or two, inching further away with each breath. So this was it... He had read the journal, knew all about this pirate. Now, he would be tortured and maimed, if not killed immediately. Dipper was stopped in his retreat by the press of iron bars at his back. A childish squeak passed his lips unintentionally and something about it made the captain grin his toothy, wide grin.

Cipher looked the boy up and down, studying him like a wolf that had successfully cornered a rabbit. He didn't burst out into a rage or attack the boy. Instead, he slowly slipped off his coat and hat, flippantly handing them to Tad. Buckles rattled and hidden armoury clanked together inside the material of the coat. Holsters were exposed, straps of black wrapped around him calve to should, holding knives, a sword, and a variety of guns.

Those brown doe eyes looked away. The colour was draining from his face but his ears retained their rosy pink. Maybe the boy was more like a sacrificial lamb than a rabbit. Stepping forward Cipher made a nice little show of control, taking his time stalking Dipper into a corner, boots heavily thumping against the floor for no other reason than theatrics. Each step was calm and evenly paced. He only stopped when he and the boy were almost chest to chest. They stood that way for a long, drawn out, silent moment. But still those brown eyes remained turned away.

The pirate's hands shot out at a speed that made the boy flinch. He gripped the bars to trap the boy, caged between his arms. The metal clanged and rattled from the force. Cipher leaned down, close to the pale cheek of the boy. He let out a low breath and watched it ruffle a dark curl about Dipper's ear.

“So, _Mason Pines,_” he grinned, dragging out the name longer than necessary. “Nice to meet cha'. Do you know who I am, kid? Did that uncle of yours do you a favour and warn you about me?”

Dipper tried to turn away from him, clearly wanting as much distance as he could get. However, Cipher was a man with no respect for personal space or boundaries. He enjoyed being up close to his hostages so he could see the fear in their eyes, watching the tears form and fall, the flushed skin when it bloomed red and purple. It usually made him so happy to see the pure emotion behind someone's eyes. Even the best of liars could be found out by their eyes. But this kid was no liar. There was nothing to hide. He was an open book, and his face read _terrified_.

Dipper sucked in air through his nose sharply before nodding to answer the question.

“That's good,” Cipher said. He took the opportunity and access to Dipper's ear by running a finger tip along the lobe, playing with the delicately twisted piece of jewellery hung there. The small links clicked together. “Boy do I have plans for you and your uncle,” he said more to himself than to his hostage. The comment grabbed Dipper's focus though, igniting an anger in him that surprised the pirate.

Dipper snapped his head around to face him, a sense of protective anger bubbling up from his chest, and despite the danger he was in he couldn't control the volume of his voice when he yelled at the man inches from his face, “Leave my family alone, you insane bastard!”

Cipher paused for a moment, taken aback by the loud outburst. He quickly recovered though and gave a good-natured chuckle. The puffed out cheeks of the kid made him smile wider. He tapped Dipper on the nose with an index finger and _tsked_ at him.It amazingly took a lot to make the pirate truly angry. He was short tempered, yes, but it would take more than a little yelling to piss him off completely. He stopped laughing, finger remaining raised in Dipper's face as a warning.

“Now, now, watch your language with me, Mason.”

“Dipper-” he breathed, irritated.

“What? What's that? Didn't hear you,” Cipher stared a little, confused. The young man, boy, whatever he was, bit his lip and blushed. He was looked at by those doe eyes again. Eyes dark as chocolate, making Cipher think of sweet, decadent desserts. He decided right then that he hated them.

“Don't call me that-”

“What's a Dipper?”

“My name you dumb as-” His mouth was quickly covered by the pirates larger hand. Dipper jumped and squeaked, head bouncing backward. He hit the irons bars but wasn't given time to dwell on the pain burning the back of his skull.

“Language, Pines. I get to call you whatever I want, but I suggest you refer to me as Cipher or Captain. Because it would be very easy for my hand to slip down and choke you until your cute little face turned blue. Okay? How's that sound?” His words were harsh and did not possess any hint of humour.

Dipper swallowed heavily, forcing himself not to look away from his captor. He could be brave. If there was one genetic trait the Pines family had going for them it was their unwavering stubbornness. Dipper held his head high and stared back into the pirates one eye. For some reason he didn't expect those intense eyes to be such a shade of ember. They reflected the light and shone gold, radiating a deep warmth. Dipper felt like he could some how drown in the pirate's golden eye.

“So, Ford told you all about me and what I'm capable of?” Dipper made a muffled answer from under Cipher's hand. He pulled his hand away slowly. “What was that?”

“N-no... he didn't,” Dipper answered honestly, or stupidly. He could have easily said yes.

Cipher looked hurt. “What? He didn't tell you about me? Are you serious? That ass-hole!” Cipher frowned. He grabbed the front of the boy's shirt in a tight grip. Under the palm of his hand he could feel Dipper's shaking. A pulse beating against his hands frantically. It was such a lively, pathetic little muscle.

“He didn't need to. I know about you. I mean... stories-”

“Stories my ass!! He didn't tell you the truth. Ha-ha!! Fordsie never changed. He's just a lying piece of shit. And _he_ still thinks he's fucking better than me?! The ass!”

“My uncle _is_ better than you!”

“He and I are one and the same. The difference is, I don't pretend to be anything but what I am,” Cipher corrected. He leant down to whisper in Dipper's ear, his breath tickling the soft pink cartilage. “Maybe the problem here is, you don't really know your uncle as well as you thought you did.”

Dipper uselessly pushed against the pirate's chest but it wouldn't budge. His uncle was nothing like this man. Ford had been a serious academic his whole life, stern faced and blunt but he was never mean or would ever think of hurting someone. Where as everyone knew the stories of Pirate Cipher, the One-Eyed Beast himself. He was nothing but a murderer who tortured innocent people for fun.

_Outraged_, Dipper gritted his teeth and threw his body weight into the pirate, elbow coming right into the man's diaphragm.

The pirate coughed, actually having a single breath forced out of him. Being struck by a hostage was rare and irritating to say the least. Still, he recovered within seconds. Cipher gripped the kid by the hair and pulled. The chains from Dipper's ear cuff tangled and wrapped around the pirate's fingers. Cipher opened the closest cell door and threw the kid inside. He watched, pleased as the boy cried out and tumbled onto the cold metal floor face first.

Cipher balled his hands into fists, not even paying attention to the piece of jewellery hanging from his left hand. He didn't even notice it. What he did see, however, was what looked to be a book bound in leather. It had become jostled loose and slipped from the boy's coat when he fell. The book landed on the floor and slid close to the pirated boot. Cipher bent down to pick it up. He turned it over, examining the binding and cover. Seeing the thinly etched writing on the cover and a smile was once more brought to his face.

“Oh-ho, what's this?” He asked, pleased. “Are these those stories you told me about? Know everything about me from some book? Convenient.”

Dipper rolled over onto his back. That was Ford's book. Angry but not entirely stupid, he fought the impulse to get to his feet and wrestle the book out back. Instead, Dipper watched Cipher flip through some pages. The expression on the Pirates face changed multiple times as he glanced over the notes and drawings, amused to surprised, to irritation, then he nodded, and smirked as if he were impressed.

Cipher lifted the book in one hand, giving it a little wave around. “I think I'll keep this, thanks,” he said. “I mean, it has my name on it after all.”

“No, it's my grunkle's...” Dipper blurted before he could cut himself off.

“Your what?” Cipher laughed.

“My... It's Stanford's...”

“That's a cute little nickname for him, 'grunkle'. Heh-kinda makes him sounds like he's a 'grouchy uncle' - which he probably is. Seriously, I always figured he was born with a thick stick rammed up his ass.” Cipher made am upward motion with his thumb to illustrate his point. “That would put anyone in such a bad mood all the time.”

“H-How do you know my uncle?” Dipper asked. A part of him was almost scared to ask and even more afraid of what the answer might be. He still asked all the same, pushing himself up to sit.

“We go way back,” the pirate said, avoiding the question really. He stepped out of the cell and pulled the door close, securing it closed with a lock and rattling the door for show as if to prove to Dipper that he could not get out.

“Enjoy your stay. If I remember to send someone to feed you, then I guess you'll get food at some point. I may or may not come back to check on you. You know, just to make sure you haven't hung yourself from your suspenders. Though it really wouldn't be my problem if you did.”

Dipper frowned, watching the man turn away to rejoin his shipmate. The pirate gathered his coat and hat, slipping them back on and adjusting his clothes. Before leaving the room, he turned back to face Dipper. He removed his hat and gave a deep bow.

The theatrical gesture felt like an insult some how. Dipper pushed himself to his feet and grabbed for the bars. He screamed out a swear, directed at the pirate and his crew. It went ignored, Cipher merely setting his hat upon his head and offering Dipper a salute to say farewell. The door was closed and the bolt pushed back in place.

Cipher marched down the hallway in the direction of his private cabin. Around him, the crew were promptly attending to their duties. Man scurried out of his way, knowing better than to get under foot of the Captain. There were more than one occasion where he took his frustration out on the crew. It happened less often now, not after one man went overboard.

Cipher's hand played with the chains wrapped around his fingers, squeezing them in a deadly vice-like grip. The more he thought, the harder his hand squeezed. That little _brat_ had not been what he expected. Not that he even expected to have a Pines family member currently locked in the brige. He'd have to be better prepared. After all, this was Ford's nephew. There were high chances that those Pine family traits ran deep. Always questioning him, talking back, stubborn... He hated them all.

Back in the ballroom, the kid looked so helpless and pathetic. It was all too easy to kidnap him. Should have seen it coming... Lippy, defiant... getting under your skin.

As they walked, Tad silently came to walk beside him. Cipher gave him a sideways glance but did not offer conversation. He shoved whatever it was wrapped in his fingers into the outer pocket of his pants. It was starting to irritate him more than the brat.

Tad still had not spoken, even as they reached his cabin. Cipher kicked the door shut out of habit – this time almost hitting his first mate in the face with the metal door. He removed and toss his coat on a nearby plush couch.

The whole cabin was like nothing else on the ship. Instead of the cold metal, the room was carpeted with overlapping thick rugs in bright patterns and colours. There were curtains and drapery to hide piping. There were oil lamps and candles on tables to aid light the room when the little electric light on the walls weren't enough. Books were placed on shelves. Knickknacks. Spoils and treasures.

The pirate went over to the far corner where his large solid wood desk sat, maps were already spread out hazardously on its top. Globes on stands were close by, a few had been marked on with ink, crossing out locations and circling others. Cipher removed his hat and threw it over a globe. He took a seat behind the desk and sighed loudly in frustration.

He was granted a short period of peace and quiet, moments in total before Tad cleared his throat.

Cipher rubbed his eyes and swung his feet up onto the table. Paper crinkling under his boots. “What do you want, Tad?” he asked.

Now alone the other man didn't have to follow any formalities with his captain and could speak openly. He took a deep breath before blurting,

“Out of curiosity, Bill – and I mean this with all due respect – are you out of your bloody mind? Why the hell would you kidnap Stanford Pines' nephew?” He asked walking over to the Captain's desk. “I know it's not really my place... But what the hell? There was a plan. A good plan, I'll admit. He should be dead right now.”

_Bill_, relaxed back in his chair, dropping the hardened pirate facade for his friend and second mate's benefit. “Are you looking for an official statement for the crew or do you want to know the truth?”

“The truth would be nice, though when you call it the 'truth' it's only ever _part_ of the truth...” Tad gave him an unimpressed look but who could tell. He always held an indifferent expression on his face, making his true nature and intentions impossible to read. Bill shrugged.

“An eye for an eye,” he finally said, drumming his knuckles on the wood table. It was vague and technically meaningless. Guaranteed to drive his friend crazy. Tad groaned through his teeth.

“That doesn't... kidnapping his nephew isn't the equivalent... Alright then, either you know what you are doing or this is bullshit and you have no idea,” he pointed out. “Bill, you've been looking for this man for fifteen years. And when you finally find him, you leave him alive. Why did you not put an end to all this nonsense?”

“See, I was going to - try to understand here Taddy - we were there, and I could have so fucking easily killed him, but it felt so... so anticlimactic. Cuz then it'd be done and over... with a simple bullet – where's the fun in that? I mean, after fifteen years of hunting that old man down, I deserve a decent amount of revenge. He wasn't even putting up a fight. Shooting him felt lacking...”

“So you kidnapped his nephew.”

“Oh please, the way those men looked at the baby Pine Tree. I may have very well kidnapped his son. But yes.”

“Baby Pine Tree?”

“-They will come after him – obviously I won't be making it easy for them – but when they do catch up - like I know they will - I can kill them all, and then I'll be happy.”

Tad nodded for a second before his brow creased slightly. “Again, baby Pine Tree?” He asked, apparently mentally stuck on that part of the explanation.

“That's what you took away from everything I just said?” Bill sat up straight, legs swinging off the desk. He hated being ignored when he spoke.

“It stood out, yes,” Tad told him.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. It's a nickname. Rolled off the tongue. It's funny-”

“How?”

“Pines. Pine Tree. It's a pun, you dimwit.”

The two continued to argue over whether the name was funny or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my attempt at describing fights have started. As well as a debatable unhealthy sexual tension between Dipper and Bill. What do you think?  
Sorry for spelling mistakes that I no doubt over looked while editing.


	3. Chapter 3

Time blended, passing terribly slow. Seconds ticked by, minutes dragged into hours. It felt as though time itself had stopped...

Dipper was able to check his pocket watch which he made sure to keep wound and working. He needed the quiet sound of gears clicking, second hand moving around the face of the clock. It grounded him in reality, making his small confined space bearable.

Night came to break Dipper of his stale surroundings, the electric lights in his cell would dim automatically to save on power. It plunged his cell into an eerie darkness, instilling nightmarish illusions, tempting to drive Dipper insane. The quiet, the isolation, growing harder to escape with every hour of every day.

His time as a prisoner, by Dipper's estimated calculations, had come to a full week...

Dipper didn't know how to pass the time alone. For far too long he marvelled at the airship's function, having never seen anything quite so impressive before. For the first couple of days, he tried to spend his time productively by figuring out how the mechanics could work on such a grand scale. Unfortunately, Dipper know much about airships, unlike some people he knew. Fiddleford, a truly bizarre man who worked with his uncle Ford, would know everything about how the airship ran. Even if he were crazy as a loon.

Now, a week into being held hostage, Dipper lay on his side resting on the little cot provided for him. There was little else he could do and his motivation to even think was fading fast. His cell was small enough for him to walk around in a circle when he got too fidgety, but no further. So, he had taken to sleeping when staring at the wall became too much for him to handle.

The jail was well secure. Sound didn't pass through wall here. Anything beyond the single door to the hall may very well not exist for him. In his silence, he could hear was the whirl of an engine near by and the hissing of a pipe that ran the length of the ceiling.

Dipper wondered how far he was from the outside world. He could imagine a cruel world where his cell shared a wall with the ship's haul and freedom was only a few feet away through thick metal, never to be reached by him again. He was trapped there, forever. Dipper rolled over, adjusting the balled up roll of fabric that was once his suit jacket. It made for a poor pillow, but it was better than nothing.

Frustrated and bored, Dipper pushed himself up off the cot and took the whole two shuffled steps toward the cell door. He couldn't handle being bored for so long. It was for sure going to drive him mad. For the umpteenth time that week he knelt down to study the lock on his cell. He rattled the door, letting out an angry cry.

It wasn't the most advanced lock. If he put some effort into it, Dipper knew he could get the lock open. That was not his problem. Once outside the cell, there was no where for him to go. So why unlock the cell when there was no chance of escaping the jail?

And if he were to some how get through a thick, bolted shut metal door, beyond that hallway, he would be running right into a whole crew of bloodthirsty pirates. It was impossible. Dipper sighed. He was in a blooming airship! Even if he somehow got away unseen and unharmed, jumping to his death from an immeasurable height didn't exactly sound like an amazing escape. It was hopeless and he was low on ideas.

Yet still unable to let go of his desperation to survive, he still rolled up his sleeves and fumbles with the lock, giving it a try out of boredom or blind stupidity to get the thing open. He chose to believe he was merely determined and strong willed. Dipper didn't want to die alone in a cell. At least being killed as a free man sounded a more honourable way to go.

Dipper had started to get the lock's casing to pry open when the bolted door unlocked. He threw himself away from the bars as far as he could get without looking suspicious and landed on the cot with a creak of springs and iron. His hair fell into his eyes, shirt riding up. He tried to straighten himself out as the door opened.

Dipper expected to be greeted by the pissed off face of his usual nameless caretaker. Dipper liked that guy.They didn't talk or anything but he was brought food. Bread and other random assortments were tossed through the bars for him to have. Then the pirate would leave without a single look back. Unfortunately, this time Dipper was surprised to see the Captain himself walking into the jail. It had been a whole week since Dipper has seen him last and his opinion on the man hadn't changed.

Dipper frowned watching the pirate close the door so they could be alone. It was a threatening move, one he tried to not seem scared by. He didn't move off the cot, just laid on his side, propped up on one elbow as if he were relaxed.

The pirate took his time walking forward through the jail, boots stomping as he walked. His one eye glanced over Dipper and the cell appraisingly. When he came to a stop at the bars, his hands clapped together. He chuckled, taking in the boy, dirt stained and alone, starving and hopeless.

“Comfortable?” The boy just glared up at him, not saying a word in response. Bill let it slide, his eye darted to the around the cell door. He hummed with interest and tapped a finger against the lock. “Been trying to escape?”

“So, what if I have?” Dipper said boldly, moving to sit up.

This impressed Bill a little bit, Prisoners tended to lose their fighting spirit quickly, but this kid was showing a hint of backbone. He was pleased in a way, finding it refreshing to not have another man snivelling and begging at his feet to be set free. Bill smiled.

“Well, it'd be stupid of you for sure. Technically, I'd have to punish you for it. And if you managed to, let's say, get out of your cell – magically, by some explainable godly force that could alter time and reality – and made it _out_ out... well... I'd have to kill you then. Gotta keep up appearances, you understand. Wouldn't be able to let you live.”

“Why are you even here?” Dipper asked hoping to interrupt the man's train of thought. It did nothing. He raised an eyebrow as the man kept talking, unable to be distracted.

“I'd be amazed, truly. Don't get me wrong. Usually, people don't escape... Actually, they don't even try... They tend to panic and,” Bill ran a finger across his throat. “Kill themselves before we kill them.”

Dipper shifted uncomfortably at the idea but stood his ground. He wouldn't fall into that deep of desperation. He'd think of something. Someone would save him.

“What do you want?” He repeated louder. The pirate, Dipper guessed, was mentally elsewhere because he was still prattling on pointlessly. Did the man really come all this way to talk _at_ him? Dipper scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“You'd be a first, Pine Tree. You'd be a first.”

“Please, go away.” Dipper's voice was extraordinarily calm given the circumstance and sounded outright annoyed with having to speak to Cipher at all.

The only other person he'd ever met who could ramble so much about nothing was Stan. But in that case, his uncle was a con-artist level salesman, talking was his job. Though there were times Stan would entertain he and Mabel for hours with stories about his travels over land and ocean, the countries he'd been to. This was nothing like that and lacked all interested. He leant back on his hands and crossed his legs. He hoped he looked as bored as he felt, so the pirate knew he was not intimidated or scared.

“I just got here. Why would I leave?” Cipher asked with a fake hurt tone to his voice. He slapped a hand dramatically over his heart. “Do you really want to get rid of me that bad?”

This made Dipper heavily sigh, running a hand over his face and up into his bangs. Talking to him was useless.

“Whatever! Talk away or just kill me already. Whatever you are here to do, just do it,” he said finally, testing his luck with the man's jokester attitude. Dipper looked at him incredulously for a moment, remembering everything that happened the last time they were in the same room together. How could he talk so familiar with him after all that? It was insulting.

“You burned down someone home. People could have died. You shot my uncles! Threatened my life. You kidnapped me!” He practically screamed that last point. “And now you're just here to harass and annoy me with your talking? Yes, I want to get rid of you. I can't get away from you fast enough.”

Bill rested a forearm against the bars of the cell and leant in close to the partition. “Boy, watch what you say to me-”

“Or else you'll kill me?” Dipper interrupted calmly. He balled up his fists, just now realizing that they were starting to shake uncontrollably. Dipper was on his feet in a heartbeat. This was not a smart thing to be doing but he was mad and couldn't stop himself. He was yelling at a pirate, one known for acts of gratuitous violence and murder. He bit his lip hard before he said something really stupid.

Bill's single eye narrowed, watching Dipper with an unwavering intensity. He could see the stiff shoulders and the shaking, how he was trying to act brave when he was anything but. Bill's fingers flexed and he cracked a knuckle. The kid flinched at the noise but kept his chin up.

“I could do a lot of things to you, my little Sapling,” Bill cooed out with a liquid sweet voice. The boy was skittish and weak, but maybe he was more than some cute face and slim waistline. While he could respect the display of bravery, Bill was not a man to test. If there was a brain in that head, Pines would sit down and shut up before things got ugly. It would be best for the both of them.

Bill fell silent, seeing if Dipper was going to push his luck further or behave. Those brown eyes flickered and looked away briefly but met his again soon enough, burning with foolish pride.

“Like torture,” Dipper assumed. “If you don't plan on killing me... But you do, don't you? You'll kill me when you're done with using me as some kind of sick bait.”

“Well, aren't you smart.” Not that Cipher meant it as a compliment. “Alright, as a matter of fact, yes. Eventually, I'll probably kill you myself.” Whatever upbeat tone Bill had in his voice disappeared immediately. His gaze hardened and he frown. Then, he gave Dipper a direct answer to his question with absolute honestly,

“If you do something that is punishable by torture, you know what I'd do to you? Hmm? You really want to know kid? I'd start by stripping you down to the waist, so all that pretty soft skin of your is on full display for my whole crew to see. I'd tie your hands behind your back and lay you down, nice and gentle. Wouldn't tie ya tight, secure but lots of wiggle room. Then, I'd heat up one of my knives till the metal glowed.” Bill tilted his head to the side. “You know what that kind of heat does to wounds, kid? It can cauterize the skin. Seals it up, so I can cut you from chin to groin, long thin and deep, right down the the muscle without you bleeding out on me. You'd just get to lay there and feel every second of it as I cut you open like a piece of meat.”

Bill definitely knew he had Dipper attention as he spoke this time. There was no snarky reply or eye roll. Instead, the boy's knees bent and trembled wanting to give out on him, but he miraculously remained standing. He wasn't fainting like a weak-hearted coward, yet.

“Then,” he continued, grinning wide enough to show his full row of filed sharp teeth. “I'll pull the skin back to expose all that lean muscle. And you'll get to scream and struggle as much as you want. I won't stop you. You'll be delirious and on the brink of passing out from pain but you'll be alive for it all. Finally, when you're eyes glaze over and your mind starts to slip away, how about I pour oil all over your open body and light you on fire? Or how does acid sound? Then we could watch your muscle and tissue bubble down to the bone underneath.”

“God! You're fucking sick!” Dipper yelled, disgusted. He moved backwards until his back pressed hard into the opposite wall of his cell. Little pearlescent tears were forming in the corner of his eyes. His chest was rising and falling much faster than it should be. Dipper could feel the adrenaline in his system spike and pump through his veins. He flexed his fingers, consciously aware of the flow of blood throughout his body. The rush left his limbs feeling weightless and his head was suddenly very dizzy. He was going to have a panic attack in front of Cipher. Dipper dug his nails into the palms of his hands, trying to focus on something other than the pirate.

“Relax, kid. If I was going to kill you, I would have done so already.” Bill laughed like the whole thing had been a joke.

Dipper refuse to look at him any more. He kept his eyes focused down on the floor where the world was steady and solid. He started to silently count back from one hundred as his ears started to ring.

The sudden change in the boy's behaviour took all the fun out of Bill's description. This wasn't quite the reaction he had been hoping for. He tilted his head and rested on the bars curiously. “Kid, look at me-”

“Go away! Leave me alone!” Dipper snap out. He closed his eyes tightly and slapped his hands over his ears to block out the pirate's voice.

Cipher clicked his tongue as if Dipper was the dramatic one. “Kid, I'm not going to hurt you-”

“I don't believe you!” Dipper truly felt disgusted. He wanted to throw up. He was a medical student. He had seen autopsied bodies, pulled back skin and muscle. The colour and smell of the dead, of infection and rot. Dipper's stomach heaved. Nothing in his brain could rationalize inflicting such injury to another living, breathing person. “You're sick,” he croaked, tasting stomach acid on his tongue.

For the longest time, Bill just stood there in silence, leaning on the cell's bars. He did and said nothing, only watched as the kid choked and hiccuped on air. The thin fragile body slipped down the wall, collapsing in a pile on the floor, shaking and helplessly limp. It was kind of pathetic to see all that bravery and life vanish due to a few words. Cipher had seen larger, stronger men reduced to their breaking point, crying and blubbering like children. This was different. He didn't even touch him.

Dipper hid his face from view so Bill could only imagine how he looked with a red puffy face, wet cheeks and blurry eyes. Crying was the real disgusting thing. All that blithering and whining. Nose running. Bill frowned, deciding it'd be a hideous expression for the kid to wear. It bothered him in a way. Bothered him to the point where he wanted to force Dipper to stop cry. Would rather him scream in pain. Just not cry.

Better yet, he wanted the flustered, prideful glare to be staring back at him, not this mess.

So, he waited patiently for it to pass.

Eventually, Dipper caught his breath and rubbed at his face angrily. He ground the heel of his palm over his eyes, not caring if he broke all the blood vessles and left them bloodshot and red. He hated himself for crying. Hated that this horrible excuse of a human was there to witness it. Dipper frowned dropping his hands from his face.

“I hate you,” he seethed over his own words, wishing the pirate would drop dead.

“That's nice,” was the response followed by a gentle breath. “Any who, my little hostage-”

“Don't call me that!”

Bill raised his hands submissively, as if he were innocently surrendering to Dipper's wishes. “Very well, sweet Pine Tree.”

The face the kid was making now was much better than moments before and it made him smile again. Those large brown eyes, even when red and puffy looked deep and delicious like a French truffle. They burned with anger and unhinged passion. Damn it was beautiful. Bill admired him silently from a far.

Before he could backtrack to what he had been going to say, Dipper started to talk with a level of seriousness that struck a cord with Bill.

“I am going to escape, Cipher, and when I do, watch your back. You won't keep me in here forever.”

“Is that so,” Bill said, interested. The fire burning within his little doe eyed hostage was infectious. Bill licked his lips and had to swallow a dry feeling in his throat.

“If my uncles don't come and kill you first, I will,” Dipper promised, climbing to his feet on weak legs. He stumbled forward through the cell, looking for a moment like he might not make it. But Dipper's hands shot out to catch himself. His pale fingers wrapped around the cold metal bars, the only they thing separating the two men. Dipper leaned in close, forehead against the iron. He didn't care if he looked like a sobbing, sweaty mess, he glared down the pirate defiantly.

“Is that a threat, Pine Tree?” Bill asked, moving to meet the boy at eye level. They were close enough that he could feel Dipper's laboured breathing. It was a glorious thing.

“It's a promise, you bastard.”

The air between them felt thick and rich, making their bodies sizzle and spark, as if somehow they had stumbled into an opium den and left high. It was dizzying and strong, dangerously captivating. The anger they both felt, mixed with some other undefined emotion permeated the air and clouded their minds. Their breath fell into sync as they stared each other down.

Bodies tensing, they could feel each other through the bars without physical contact. The strong presence between them, sharp like electricity.

It was too much to handle and not give into. Bill moved a little closer. His far darker tanned fingers crept lower on the metal to just graze Dipper's pale ones. There was a spark that passed between them in that brief contact that burned.

Bill smirked, feeling his own chest tighten. He watched the boy lick his dry lips. The little tip of his tongue peaking out to rub over his small mouth. New thoughts were beginning to fill his head, horrible, terrible thought of things he'd do if the bars weren't between them. Thoughts of throwing the body's body up against the wall, holding him still while he stripped him naked. Of wanting to be inside him, fast and hard. Making him scream, lovely, passionate screams of ecstasy and pleasure. Then wrapping his hand around that long neck to choke those screams into a gurgling strangled gasp. Bill licked his own lips, needing to wet his whistle so to speak. The heat was getting to him.

Regrettably, Bill had to pull away, less he get carried away with himself and act on some of his scandalous thoughts. It was harder to do so than he expected, stepping back from the bars.

“I'll be seeing you, Pine Tree,” he went to say, but it came out more like a needy groan. Dipper's fighting spirit and passionate eyes were getting him all too hot under the collar. Bill turned retreated for the exit, practically punched the closed door when he got to it out of frustration. The latch was yanked open and the door was thrown back on its hinge.

Like last time, the pirate gave a salute before disappearing out the door and leaving Dipper alone and confused.

Once the door close and was bolted shut, Dipper slipped down to his knees, out of breath and awkwardly sweating. He panted softly, resting his forehead against the iron which felt blissfully chill against his face. With trembling fingers he rubbed the hair at the base of his neck. The skin there was surprisingly wet and hot. He blushed fiercely, unsure of what he was feeling all of a sudden. There was anger still in him but it was mixed with something else, something that made him glad for the cell bars, to keep Cipher and himself separated.

He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. Dipper didn't know what had come over him. Anger ran through his system. It made him want to reach through the bars and wrap his hands around the pirate's throat to squeeze the life out of him. His stomach gave an unease roll. Dear God, he was going crazy. Dipper was sure of that.

His fingers still tingled from the like touch of Bill's hand. The ghost like caress was so brief that Dipper wasn't all too sure that he hadn't just imagined it.

Unintentionally, he shifted and rubbed his thighs together, in the hopes to find a comfortable position to sit. The tightness of his muscles throbbed and everything felt too warm for his liking. Dipper rubbed what he expected to be a cramp in his thigh. Fingers slightly brushing over his trousers in such a way to notice the hardening beginnings of an erection between his legs. His hand snapped away, horrified for a long moment. Surely this wasn't because of Cipher. That idea was laughably absurd.

He refuse to think he could ever be attracted to a lunatic like that man. It was simply the sudden outburst of adrenaline. That's what he told himself.

Dipper whimpered, hating the tightness between his legs. He breathed slowly, trying to will it away so he wouldn't stoop to manually getting rid of it. There was no way he would do that, not in a prison cell to a deranged fantasy. He had to get out of there. If they didn't kill him first, he was going to go insane trapped behind bars.

Dipper had meant every word when he threatened Cipher. If Ford didn't come and kill the pirate, he would. Although he was positive they were coming for him. There was no doubt in his mind his uncles were on their way to find him somehow. They would come. They would fight and they would save him. He had to believe that.

It was merely the simply choice to ignore logic, the fact that the airship had to have a vast number of cannons and weapons on board, a large crew that were all unafraid to die in a fight, and an insane captain. That two elderly men against an entire pirate crew was a losing battle.

His only other option was to escape by himself...

Alright, killing the pirate wasn't actually plausible. If no one else had managed to take the man down, how could he?

Dipper groaned, tired and still tense. He pushed himself up and sat on his knees. He bit his lip, holding in a throaty whine. It was awkward trying to mentally force down arousal that persistently wanted to remain half swollen. He swore under his breath and muttered insults directed at the pirate. They were childish and not very insulting at all, but they were the best his distracted brain could come up with.

He needed to focus on something. That would help. Moving to sit on his knees, Dipper faced the locked cell door again. The cell itself would be the easiest to break out of. A little tinkering with the lock and he could have it open in less than an hour. In theory, but Dipper was giving himself the benefit of the doubt. He'd never actually broken open a lock before.

Anything after that would be harder and require a real plan. The door to the hall was too thick to break down, locked from the outside, and its hinges weren't going to budge without some strong tools. He didn't have a hammer or wrench, or anything. The room outside his cell was empty. So the hallway outside the jail was not a viable option.

Dipper rolled his head to the side, stretching out his stiff neck. It hurt and there was a kink on the one side of his neck that he was sure would never loosen.

He blinked for a second, clearing away any lasting tears from his eyes. His gaze fell on a small vent in one corner of the ceiling. Judging from the rectangular shape and size, it was probably a generic air vent, connecting to a larger tunnel system that cycled the air throughout the ship.

Dipper pressed against the bars to try and see the vent better. The little grate didn't look too thick or very strong, his own body weight alone would probably have it down in seconds. And while it looked small, he might be able to squeeze inside and up into the duct above. An airship this size the have to require large pipping for sufficient air flow. Of course he'd have to be very careful to not get stuck, but he was getting a head of himself already. He was judging the vent from a poor angle to start with and would have to reach it first before he could test out any further ideas.

Still, it was the best hope Dipper had for escape. He smiled to himself, feeling actually proud of himself.

“Heh... stupid pirate.” He didn't mean to prematurely celebrate but he was excited to get the hell out of his damned cell.

Dipper moved away from the bars to get comfortable on the cot, though _comfortable_ was a barely passable word for it. He ignored the thin springs poking into his back and pulled out his watch to double check the time. Dipper estimated the time for his potential afternoon meal, if one was being brought to him at all. Then he would have a few hours before night fall and the automatic dimming of the lights. A few hours to pick a lock and jimmy open a vent.

It didn't sound impossible, only extremely challenging. But that was step one to Dipper's ill formed, incomplete plan of escape. A plan he was going to recklessly carry out, even if he died trying.

Hell, he'd sit and wait in the vent for days if he had to. An airship this size had to land at some point somewhere to take on provisions and fuel. Right?

So he passed the time and waited.

The meal brought down for him was off by half an hour from Dipper's calculations. He wasn't going to beat himself up over a the difference of thirty minutes. The food itself wouldn't be something to look forward to, if you were an average person who knew what good food looked like. Except, Dipper hadn't eaten hot food in a week. So he was moderately pleased to see the portion of stale bread, what looked like boiled beans, and a cooked egg. He never thought he'd be missing his sister's home cooking. How she could forcefully bake anything into pie form. Like pickled beat and pork pie... It was somehow more appealing than this brown mush.

When this was all over, Dipper never wanted to see beans ever again.

He still ate all the food on the tray despite the unappealing colour. Hunger was a cruel thing. The worse off you were, the less picky you tended to be.

After the somewhat lukewarm meal, Dipper got to work on the lock. He wouldn't be able to see very well once the lights went down, do for the small gears of the lock, he had to work fast. There was a chance he could continue in the early morning, but it at a huge risk.

The lock was well made and didn't want to give Dipper an easy time. The casing was tight and he didn't exactly have tools to pry it open. Somehow, he managed to loosen a screw from the cot's metal frame and stole a pin clip from his coat to use as tools.

The process of breaking open the lock was no where near as simple as Dipper theorized. He stopped out of frustration more than once, groaning and swearing under his breath.

“Damn it... You fucking lock!”

It took a good deal of persuasion to get the casing to come off, exposing the locking mechanism inside. He smiled with pride because that was the hardest part. Now that he could see inside the lock, Dipper was confident he could find the release gear and get the thing open. It was child's play from there. All it took were a few pokes with the skinny end of the screw, some trial and error, then the gears clinked and sprang into place. The lock popping open in his hand.

“Yes!” Dipper stood up, cracking his sore knuckles. They felt cramped and useless after all that work.

He undid the top few buttons of his shirt. Bits of grease rubbed off on the already dirty cream fabric, staining it further. He didn't care any more. By this point, his best suit was no better than garbage.

“Okay, you can do this, Dipper,” he told himself. He rolled his neck and felt a pop. “Ow... fuck...”

With a small whimper and a roll of a soar shoulder, Dipper opened the cell door and hurried over to stand under the vent. A plan was forming in his brain and it made his body was vibrate with a new found source of energy.

He was too short to reach anything, so he'd need a ladder or something to stand on...

He dashed back to his cell, grabbing the frame of the cot and tugged. The metal bed was flimsy and creaked, but thankfully not heavy at all. He turned the whole thing over, letting the mattress flip on its side. This would work perfectly as long as it fit through the cell door.

It took some manoeuvring and some more swearing. Everything worked better with a little angry swearing. It was a life lesson Dipper learned early on from his Grunkle Stan. Bless that man's habits of drinking before noon and swearing like a sailor.

Finally, with a good shove, the bed frame made it through the door. Metal screeched on metal. Dipper kicked and pulled and dragged the cot across the floor leaving long scratched marks. At this point, he'd come too far to care about the noise, or the trail of evidence. In theory, if he couldn't hear outside his cell, no one should be able to hear in.

And besides, once he got inside the vent, what was the worst that could happen?

Dipper propped the cot up against the wall. This was either going to work or fail terribly.

The rickety frame looked like the saddest excuse for a ladder. It didn't look to be the most secure thing, but if Dipper could lay on it then he should be able to stand on it. It wasn't by any means infallible logic. He had taken screws out of it after all and it wobbled under his weight.

Knowing this still didn't stop Dipper from stuffing his foot between the spring and trying not to fall backwards. He wouldn't question how lucky he was getting. The cot held his weight as he climbed closer to the ceiling.

Up close, the vent looked a little smaller than he had hoped it'd be. He was no contortionist and he wasn't all that flexible, but he might be able to squeeze through the damn thing if he tried hard enough. As long as he didn't have to turn around or make any sharp turns, he may not get stuck.

Dipper reached out and slid his fingers into the grated vent then gave a hard tug. The metal creaked and bit into his fingers. Still, it didn't seem that sturdy.

As Dipper was pondering just how to get the grate off, the wall lights started to dim. It cast the room in a warm glow. There was just barely enough light to see now. His eyes would adjust some but not all that much to help him. This wasn't going to stop him now. Dipper frowned. What would Stan say, '_grab the bull by the horns and fuck it sideways_'. He assumed that meant something relative...

He took a very deep breath, threading his fingers through the metal. He held on tight with both hands and kicked off the cot. The thin metal bent and gave under Dipper's full body weight. He dropped to the floor like a rock. It was an ungraceful landing as he fell to his knees.

_It worked..._ Dipper thought, speechless for a moment. He held the flimsy vent cover in his hand, proud of himself. He couldn't believe he was actually doing it, and succeeding. A laughed bubbled up from his chest and a wide smile crossed his face.

Getting back on his feet was a little wobbly. The adrenaline going through his body was wearing off a little, leaving a heaviness to his legs and arms. He flung the metal piece aside, not caring where it went. He started to shake a little, slipping more as he climbed the cot again.

Dipper couldn't believe he was doing this. It reminded him of a story Stan had told him when he was younger, one of those crazy storied of being locked in a Colombian prison. Dipper never believed those stories. It was still amusing to think about and if anything, it was taking Dipper's mind off the fact he was breaking out of a cell, on a ship full of pirates who could kill him. Right now though, he didn't want to think about potential death as he climbed back up toward the vent.

“Alright, let's do this...”

This was not an easy task. For starters, the angle wasn't exactly the best and he was still too short to merely slip inside. With his arms stretched out over head, he could get a grip on the hole's edge. The second problem Dipper was facing was that he wasn't exactly strong. His upper body strength did not get him far with manual labour. So, to pull himself up using just his arms and a slippery grip on smooth metal was not looking promising. He lost his grip.

A second, a third, a fourth time he landed on his knees, having to climb back up and try again.

Dipper grunted and wrestled with trying to get his body to do what he wanted. He swung a foot out, trying to leverage himself using the wall or anything. He knew his luck had to run out somewhere, all because of his skinny arms. Dipper took a leap, pushing off the cot. The frame scrapped the wall as it was knocked out from under his feet. The heavy weight of it crashing to the floor with an echoing bang.

“Ah, fucking hell...” Dipper cursed and panted. He had gotten one arm inside the vent, the rest of him hung in the empty air. He swung his legs, clawed his fingers into the seams between the metal.

Somehow, he got both arms and his shoulders into the hole. It was dark inside the vent, full of dust and smelled atrocious. He coughed on the air and cringed. There was barely enough room for his body, he found out as he struggled and muttered under his breath. A sharp metal seam caught his vest, ripping a wide hole. Dipper wiggled trying to get the fabric loose. His palm ran over the catch and immediately he felt the skin of his hand tear.

Dipper bit his lip hard to hold in a cry of pain. It was too dark for him to see how deep the cut went, but it hurt badly and he knew it was bleeding. For now all he could do was pull on his vest until the fabric was so damaged that it let go completely. He pulled himself forward on an elbow, trying to roll over on his back for a brief rest but couldn't find the energy. His heroic escape put him on his stomach in an air duct, physically at his limits and bleeding. Dipper squeezed his hand, making a fist. He could feel the warmth of his skin and the sticky feeling of fresh blood beneath his fingertips.

He tried to pull himself together but found he couldn't go any further than a few feet down the air duct. He was too tired.

There wasn't enough room to remove his vest, so Dipper did what he could to wrap his bleeding hand in the fabric while it was still on his body. He held the injured hand close to his chest and tried to apply some pressure to the cut.

He closed his eyes, thinking it would only be for a second to catch his breath, but Dipper very quickly passed out unable to do much else...

An hour, maybe two. It very well could have been half the night. He finally blinked his eyes open but saw little.

Hardly any light was coming in. His own body blocked whatever could be seen behind him, but up ahead were small streams coming up from other vent openings and gaps in the metal. He wasn't sure where to go or if he was facing a good direction or not. It probably didn't matter in the end. Still, Dipper pulled himself along. He quickly gave up trying to keep his injured palm clean and wrapped in his vest. He would get no where using only one of them. It hurt to apply pressure but he grit his teeth and worked through the discomfort.

“Uh, okay... couldn't get much worse... Don't get stuck. Mabel will make fun of me for getting stuck,” he groaned at no louder than a whisper. He kept his voice to a hushed whisper just in case it would carry. Though it would have pleased him more to scream. Unfortunately, he did not have the privilege of getting angry right now. “Fucking pirates...”

Dipper pulled himself a few more yard before taking a small break. This was a lot harder than he ever thought it would be. It was dark and cramped. He was breathing in dust and God knows what else. Really, he wasn't about to recommend trying this to anyone unless their life depended on it.

It took a long while, crawling through the air vent, avoiding visible grates and trying not to make noise. An impossible task really as his knees would clunk against the vent as he wriggled on his stomach. Every time he had to make a turn, left or right, Dipper had to just guess where to go, hoping his choice was a good one. At first, he tried to remember the path back to his cell, 'a right, a left, another left...', but everything was beginning to blur. Each stretch of dark tunnel looked identical to the next. If for some reason he had to turn around and find a way back, he'd probably end up even more lost.

He'd rest again after a few more yards, he promised himself. There was just a gap, lined with vents that he needed to cross first. It would be too much of a risk to crawl over them in any bright light where someone may notice. He took is slow, inching over the gaps, knowing how flimsy the casing could be. At each creak and bang, Dipper paused and held his breath. He listened for movement or voices but heard none. Then he would start again, slowly.

His knee came down harder than intended on a grate.

The metal broken too easily and popped out of the vent immediately. Clearly, it was not built to take excessive weight, especially not the weight of a full grown man. His leg slipped out of the vent, his other trying to remain inside. In surprise, Dipper almost lost his grip. He squeaked, grappling for something to grab. He was managing to recover. He was almost back inside the vent.

Then a hand grabbed his ankle tight and unyielding. It was given a quick yank, almost pulling him completely from his hiding place. Dipper tried to keep a solid hold. He kicked his leg, trying to shake off the hand. Another found his thigh, pulling him further down. A good pull and Dipper was grabbed by he waist. He let out a cry as he fell into the arms of whoever caught him.

Dipper didn't get a good look at the man before he was tossed over onto a plush surface. His world went sideways, a rush of blood going to his head. It felt like a tidal wave struck him. He blinked, eyes burning in the brighter light of the new room. It was a sleeping cabin. He was on a bed. Cornered between a wall and a pirate.

Weak, fight worn out of him, Dipper looked up at the man with a fearful gaze. He recognize this pirate. Though the long week had muddled his memory. However, Dipper knew him as the one other normal looking pirate he'd come to find so far. The taller, gentlemanly looking pirate with dark hair. He did not look impressed. Hair rumpled out of its smoothed back style, sleep attire wrinkled and untucked, and while he remained unarmed, Dipper did not count that as a blessing.

The man fixed him with a hard glare, arms crossing over his chest. For a moment they stayed that way, frozen in place. Then the pirate sighed.

Tad would have forgiven sudden cannon fire before this. He hadn't expected their little hostage to come breaking through his ceiling. Though somehow, he didn't feel very surprised. It was merely an annoyance, being rudely awoken and having his private room disturbed by their current captive. He chose to blame this on Bill.

Tad rubbed his face tiredly. “Get up. You're coming with me.” He motioned for Dipper to get up on his own. “I'm not carrying you. So, get up.”

He yawned casually, actually covering his mouth politely and waited for the boy to move.

Confused but grateful to not be forced, Dipper complied. He slowly rolled off the bed and got to his feet. Standing in front of the pirate silently, the two shared another long moment of awkward eye contact. They were really no threat to one another. Whatever fear Dipper felt, it had nothing to do with Tad. His upper arm was grabbed in a light hold, one Dipper didn't fight. It wasn't forceful or threatening but still made for a commanding lead. Dipper followed, letting himself be moved.

“Let me go.” Dipper said, not finding it necessary for the man to drag him along by the arm. His voice was irritated and he didn't bother to hide it. The little plea went ignored of course and Dipper was tugged along at a quick pace, out of the cabin and down a hallway. After a few stumbled steps Dipper repeated himself and tried to pull out of the grip on his sleeve. “Seriously, let me go. I can walk on my own.”

“Oh hush up. You and Bill both talk too much...” Tad mumbled.

Dipper scoffed, insulted to be compared to that man in any way.

“Excuse me?” he spat back.

“I said, hush.”

Dipper huffed like a child. “Please, do not say that I am in any way like _him_. The man is a raving lunatic.”

Tad tuned him out, ignoring the boy's voice easily. He had years of practice having to listen to Bill's rambling. All he heard was the blissful humming music in his own head.

The two finally reached a large decorated door. The metal had intricate engravings along the frame, deep set into the moulding, swirls and geometric shapes. Dipper didn't have to think hard about who's cabin this way. What did chill him to the bone was Cipher's promise of punishment for trying to escape, or worse, death for getting out.

Tad came to a stop in front of the large door, fist coming up to slam repeatedly against it. The banging echoed through out the hallway loudly where it had been so quiet before. For a moment it looked like there would be no answer but Tad was not giving up easily and he continued to pound at the door until it was opened. Annoyed, he tried the latch and found it unbolted. The pirate swore and shoved the door in.

Dipper froze mid tug on Tad's grip, when he saw the beautifully ornate room. The fancy, expensive furnishing. The rugs, the books, the collection of objects and trinkets. He was actually in awe. Everything was so eclectic, still looking impressive despite the clutter. He was so taken by what he was seeing that he didn't notice Tad let go of his arm.

“Bill, wake up!” Tad yelled from the middle of the room. Off to one side, along the wall, was a partially closed door. It was open enough to let sound travel through. Dipper, as well as Tad, could hear a rhythmic thumping and a misplaced grunt from inside. There was a rustling and creak. A whiny protest. And Cipher's snappy voice telling them to leave.

Dipper frowned, curious, but Tad didn't look phased or concerned.

“Bill! Stop having sex and get out here!”

Dipper instantly turned a bright shade of red at the comment. His brain clued into the noises and he turned away from the door in shock and deeply ingrained modesty, embarrassed to have come in while Bill was doing _that_ with someone. He covered his face with his hands wanting to hide. Quickly, he turned toward a nearby table that held crystallized stones. He heard a low animalistic growl, followed by more rustling from inside the room behind him.

The door swung open and Dipper tried not to look. But the little chunks of rock couldn't distract him well enough, he peeked back over his shoulder. Bill stepped up to Tad. The captain looked very tense and upset about being interrupted. He was still trying to yank loose trousers up over his hips. He certainly did not appear shy about this, holding himself comfortably as if he could have easily strut through the room naked and the trousers were nothing more than a courtesy for Tad's sake.

Dipper awkwardly watched, eyes wide and glued to Bill. It wasn't a sight he'd seen very often. He knew what the male body looked like. He himself was male, obviously. However, the pirate's body was nothing comparable to his own. Bill's upper body was bare, dark skin slick with sweat. His wide shoulders looked bigger as arms crossed over the broad chest. His waist line tapered down at a sharp angle. Bill was not particularly muscular, but he was toned and in shape, as one would become from physical labour and fighting.

The physical build of the man wasn't all that grabbed Dipper's attention, but also the sight of the scars that crisscrossing his skin, thick white lines standing out against an otherwise perfect dark tan. Around his shoulders and upper arms were smatterings of faded black designs, tattoos that looked years old and poorly kept. Dipper could make out faded triangle patterns, something that look like writing of another language, and a stylized eye. Dipper gaped at him feeling the heat in his cheeks worsen.

“Bill, seriously, what have I said about having sex with the crew?”

“Something about not doing it? I forget exactly what you said.”

Tad was about to answer him when Bill finally noticed Dipper tucked behind him. The generally irritated expression on his face hardened.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Bill yelled. “Why is he out of his cell?”

“He fell through my ceiling,” Tad commented.

“What?!” Cipher pushed passed him, stalking over to Dipper. His face darkened, clearly mad.

Dipper gasped, jumping back. He quickly retreated, using the small table to hide behind and maintain space between them. However it did nothing. Cipher marched up to him, grabbing the table and flipping it onto its side, sending rocks flying across the rugs which carpeted the floor. Stepping back, Dipper hit a wall. He had no where else to run and the pirate came close to his face.

Bill's hands shot out, slamming against the wall and trapping Dipper between them. It was an unsettling familiar position.

“Now, how did that happen, Pine Tree?” His bright eye narrowed into a glare.

“He escaped, clearly,” Tad said.

“Shut up, Tad!” Bill yelled back. His eye never left the kid. So he didn't miss the flinch Dipper gave. The pirate chuckles and lowered his tone. “So, kid, care to explain yourself?”

Dipper hated being called 'kid'. His uncles would do it all the time, same for his father. He was a grown adult, not a child any longer. And what was this nickname, 'Pine Tree'? Why was his name so hard for the pirate to remember and use properly?

“Dipper...” Dipper scowled. Despite how his body was shaking, heart starting to beat heavily in his chest, his mouth wouldn't stop saying dumb shit. “My name's Dipper. It's not hard. I don't know why you insist on calling me anything but.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that. I ignore you on purpose.”

“I picked up on that, thanks.”

“Then, I don't know why you bothered bring it up.”

“Because, it's annoying. How'd you like it-”

“It's a nickname. Get use to it cuz I give 'em to everyone. You're not special.”

“Good God...” Tad seethed, turning for the door. “Well, apparently you two have a lot to discuss. Enjoy.”

Bill turned, taking his attention off the kid for a minute. “Oh no, you are taking him back to his cell!”

“He knows how to get out!” Tad stood in the door frame. He had no intention of being the boy's keeper for the rest of the night. “He's your hostage. You can deal with him.”

Bill let out a nasally snarl, watching Tad exit his room. When he was out of sight, Bill turned back to the kid. He put himself at level with those brown doe eyes.

“Alright then, _Dipper_,” he said spitting the name out at him bitterly. “Now, how's about you explain exactly what you were doing out of your cell, and how you managed to wind up falling through my first mate's ceiling?”

His fingers twitched, nail threatening to start drumming against the wall from irritation. He had been interrupted so rudely already and he very much wanted to get back to his bed guest for the evening. There was no answer to his question, only a timid squeak and a sharp in haul. It was going to be a very long night if this kept up. He wasn't in the mood to interrogate a hostage either, not with an uncomfortable distraction tucked inside his pants. What was worse was the the loose fabric, rubbing against his sensitive skin every time he moved.

Bill bared his teeth, focus going all over the place now. And his Pine Tree was looking so innocent too with his big eyes and small mouth pressed into a tight line.

Dipper swallowed and puffed up his chest, attempting to look brave. When he went to speak though, only a broken, distracted string of words escaped. It was hard to think with Bill so close to his face.

“I...escaped... my cell.” Dipper mentally slapped himself.

“No shit. Explain how,” Cipher growled. His eye became heavily dilated in the low light. The ember gold looking almost black.

Dipper's mouth went dry, a new shade of pink washing over his cheeks.

“I took apart the lock and-and...uh...climbed...” Dipper, by habit, talked with his hands and made a little ladder climbing motion but his knuckles accidentally brushed the pirate's bare chest. The contact of hot skin made him instantly retract his hand. His palms glued themselves to the wall at his sides. “Climbed into the air duct, but-heh...then it broke.”

Bill hummed and clicked his tongue of his front teeth. “Impressive.”

“Really?” Dipper perked up, for some reason believing that.

“Yeah,” Bill pushed off the wall and stood back away from the boy. “I think you're the first one to try that. Most people are rather stupid, from what I've noticed. But you... You are a little more cagey than the rest. I can respect that.”

Dipper shifted along the wall to get away from the pirate. It wasn't entirely clear to him what was going through Bill's mind. He couldn't tell if the man was legitimately mad or if he would turn violent at any second. Not that Dipper highly valued his life as a whole but he still didn't want to die any time soon. While Bill wasn't making an immediate attempt to harm him, Dipper remained understandably caution and sceptical of the man's current behaviour.

Bill watched Dipper slink away like a scared mouse. He chuckled and crossed his arms again, thinking. “Well,” he started slowly, amusement laced in his tone with the odd mocking drawl. “Well, well, well...”

“What?” Dipper raised a brow.

“I can't very well take you back to your cell... Guess I have to find some other place to put you. Somewhere I can keep an eye on you.”

Before the boy could question him further, Bill grabbed him by the forearm. It was cute how he protested, starting to scream and pull against him. Bill was stronger though, easily dragging him from the wall and across the room. Fingers scratched at his arm, trying to hook a finger and pry free of his grasp. Dipper yelped and struggled pathetically as he was turned and shoved face down over Bill's large desk.

A thrill ran up Bill's spine, enjoying how his Pine Tree's body was light and easy to bend to his will. The pointless struggling against his hold, how Dipper wasn't strong enough to get away. Bill grabbed the back of his collar, heel of his palm digging down into the boy's weak spine. That small press was all it took to hold his down against the desk. The boy gave a sweet little whimper of pain.

Bill slid a drawer open, purposefully going slow to keep Dipper's attention. He retrieved a pair of clunky handcuffs. They were brought forward so they could be shown off, their solid weight clear in the pirate's hand, the impossible to break chain that connected each cuff.

The handcuffs were easily secured around the kid's wrists, keeping them behind his back. Just as a little extra insurance, to give Bill some peace of mind for the night, the key remained tucked away in the drawer and would remain there for now.

“I hope you're comfortable, Pine Tree.” Bill roughly pulled the boy up off the desk, a wide smile forming on his face. “We're bunk mates now.”

That said, he didn't give Dipper much choice about being lead to his room. Bill kicked open the door the rest of the way. Eyeing the, not one but two, shipmates in his bed, Bill pulled Dipper back by the collar, protectively keeping him out of view. “Out. Go.” He barked at them.

The two didn't need further instructions. They clambered off the bed, grabbing for their clothes and rushed to be the first one out of their captain's cabin. Dipper stared, disgusted by the blatant nudity and smell that came off them. He didn't want to go anywhere near that bed knowing what had been going on in those sheets moments prior. Not that he could object.

He was pushed forward into the room once it became empty. The door was closed behind them and bolted into place. The chance of Dipper getting away now was slim to none.

Bill felt too tired, even though he enjoyed their little game. Maybe they could continue tomorrow, but he needed to get a little rest. Between being interrupted earlier and the tempting heat coming off the kid's body, he was too riled up to deal out punishments tonight. He let go of the kid and left him standing on his own. Moving to lay on the bed, Bill stretched out on his back, legs crossing at the ankles. He gave Dipper an impatient glance.

“Well? Get comfortable. Bed or floor, I don't care,” he assured him.

Dipper didn't move for a minute, not sure of what to do. The option of the floor sounded appealing, but hard and cold...

Apparently, he was taking too long to decide. The chain of the handcuffs were grabbed and Dipper was pulled forward with a fast yank. He fell over onto the bed with as much grace as a dead bird.

Bill scoffed at his lack of coordination, but internally he laughed. The kid had landing across his lap, face planting into the sheets. It was funny.

Dipper rolled himself over onto his side. The bed surprisingly plush and sunk in as me struggled to get away from Bill. He turned his head sharply, offering out an angry pout.

Bill broke out into loud laughter.

Blushing, Dipper shoved the man with his knee and crawled as far as he could get to the empty side of the mattress. It was difficult and there wasn't much room to go. He ended up on his side, laying along the far edge of the mattress which pressed along the wall. The space between them was no more than a foot in length. A little less than twelve inches and he still felt like Bill was pressing against him.

He closed his eyes tight, able to hear his own heartbeat in his ears. After everything, all those stories, after seeing first hand what this pirate was capable of, Dipper had half a mind to strangle the captain to death in his sleep. If not for his uncles then for his own bruised pride. Bill moved behind him and Dipper jumped, looking back to where the man was settling in to sleep. _Cocky bastard_, he thought, head lifting off the a pillow.

For a long while Dipper just watched him. The relaxed facial muscles of the sleeping face made him look so much less intimidating. His bare chest raised and lowered with soft even breaths. Of course he could sleep, because Dipper wasn't a threat to him. Dipper frown and dropped down to the bed, turning his back completely on the pirate.

Yes, he reminded himself it wasn't a good idea to turn his back on a criminal but he couldn't lay there staring at the man all night. That would drive him crazy, either with anger or poorly dreamt up plans for revenge, or by the little irritating ideas that made Dipper blush and avoid looking at Bill's bare skin.

Dipper forced himself to lay still, to try and find some comfortable position to rest in. He had to get some sleep, even if it was just for a few minutes. His body agreed, relaxing into the soft blankets and the give of the mattress. Silently Dipper said a small prayer, asking for the safety of his family and forgiveness for the immoral thoughts of murder than were clouding his brain.

He was not ready to admit to himself that the warmth at his back was a comforting touch. That the physical presence of another person in bed with him was soothing. That hearing another's breathing was a lullaby, urging him down to sleep. Dipper closed his eyes and easily feel asleep. That night he dreamt of warm tanned skin and a commanding touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for spelling/grammar errors.
> 
> I'm so flattered by everyone's positive comments. You guys are so sweet!!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to break this chapter up between this and the next one. It was getting far too long. So this is some mild filler with a healthy dose of pain and conflicting emotional attachments.

Sleep... it was safe there. A beautiful place where Dipper felt grounded and secure, worlds away from any danger or harm. There in sleep he was relaxed to the point of oblivious, mind drunk off the peaceful nothingness of a dreamless sleep.

Until there was a loud noise cutting through his happiness, bringing him back to his anxieties and the fears that went alone with reality. Dipper was awoken from his light sleep abruptly. His body gave a knee-jerk reaction and he jumped awake, twisting on reflex. His hands however were still cuffed behind his back and did not budge or wane. Something in his arm popped from the strain and he let out a surprised gasp although it did not actually hurt. The little shock of pain lessened within seconds and dulled to a gentle throb.

Disoriented, Dipper panted and looked around. Moments ago he was coated in soft blackness, now the harsh light of the cabin made him squint. It was morning, as far as he could tell although there was no sunlight to indicate such a thing. Instead, the electrical lights had been switched on again filling the room around him in an artificial yellow tint.

“Morning to you too, Pine Tree,” Bill said in a cheery tone.

Dipper frowned and performed a weird half roll that made him feel like a worm. Still, he was able to turn over and face the pirate without dislocating a shoulder or pulling a muscle. He glared on seeing him, not impressed by the wide smile that was being offered to him. That cat-like grin was nothing but trouble.

“Oh, don't let me disturb you. You can sleep here all day if you want. I don't really care.”

“You're going to leave me in here? Like _this_?” Dipper squawked, trying to hide the slight voice crack by coughing. He grimaced. A grown man and he still occasionally squealed like a twelve year old.

“For now, yeah.” Bill shrugged, indifferent to how the kid felt about it. “You can't be trusted, Pine Tree. Even when I got you locked in a cage, I can't trust you. Tsk Tsk.”

Dipper was not going to be take this laying down, metaphorically or literally. He swung himself off the bed, legs going flying for a moment before they found the floor. Dipper stood, almost tumbling forward into the man. “You are not leaving me lock up like this!” he shouted.

Bill simply pushed Dipper backwards onto the bed again, palm applying heavy pressure to his chest. The kid fell with a pathetic little _oof_. The thin body sprawled over the mattress in a heap. He shook his hair out of his face, glaring angrily.

Putting a knee up on the mattress Bill leant down. The closer he came, the further the kid tried to push himself back into the bed. Unfortunately for him, there was nowhere to go. He lowered himself down to one elbow, cocking his head to the side as he held Dipper's eye.

“I'd take you with me but you'd be far too distracting, my little Sapling.” Bill couldn't keep the flirtatious undertone out of his words. “As much fun as it would be having you tied up at my feet while I work.”

Dipper swallowed heavily. “Get away from me, right now.”

Bill did the opposite, he got closer.

The kid's brown hair was all messed up from sleep, curling around his face in odd directions. His pale skin, which had once been lightly sun-kissed and pink was pale and coated in a layer of dirt and grime, now looking grey and lifeless. He was nothing special to look at when like this. Dirty, tired with bags under his eyes, and a sharp tongue that Bill would take great pleasure in cutting out of his mouth. He'd already proven to be a handful, stubborn and defiant. The boy was a Pines through and through. Something Bill deeply hated.

“Talk back to me again and I'll whip you within an inch of your life,” Bill said evenly before lifting back onto his hands. “We wouldn't need the cuffs to keep you in place then. You'd been too broken to move.”

Dipper stayed quiet, barely breathing as the man got off him and stepped away from the bed. They held each others gaze intently, silently testing each others limits, seeing how far the other can be pushed before their patience broke.

Bill cursed himself, not understanding what had him repeatedly looking back at the kid. He was just a boy, an unimpressive young man. There were hundreds of thousands identical to him. There were prettier ones, stronger ones, obedient ones. Still, he found himself looking back, always being met by those dark eyes. Bill shook his head at how out of character he was acting. He had no reason for restraint. He'd already let Dipper get away with too much. No broken bones or blood spilt, the pirate was being down right saintly to the damned brat.

Without having to turn his gaze away, Bill stepped over to a tall dresser that had a weird lean to it. He grabbed a clean shirt and shook it out. It was simple and white, with full sleeves and a high collar. It had gold buttons going right up to the neck, though Bill left it undone around his collar bone. Over that he pulled on a black vest with gold trim. The trousers were from the night before but still matched in black. He tucked in the shirt and started grabbing holsters and straps, buckling them over himself. He nodded at the boy who hadn't yet broken eye contact.

“Like something you see, Mason?” Bill asked teasingly, use to being ogled every now and then.

“Dipper. And no...” he answered firmly.

Bill chuckled, knowing better. He had seen the flush on the kid's cheeks. And as much as Bill would love to forgo his self control, which had been impeccable since bringing the kid on board, he did have work to attend to. He found his boots and pulled them on, buckling clips on the sides to fasten them up. Bill made quick work of arming himself, slipping knives and pistols over and under his clothes, between straps and snugly placed in their holsters. Weapons of all kinds were being carelessly drawn from under cushions, between books, out of drawers.

Dipper wondered what else was tucked away in this room, feeling like he'd move and roll over an explosive or become impaled by something hiding under the mattress.

Once dressed Bill smoothed down his hair, checking his appearance in a small mirror hanging off the wall next to a wash basin. He turned sharply and strode up to Dipper. Reaching out a hand he grabbed hold of his shirt. Easily he was able to manhandle the thin body into a sitting position. Bill ordered Dipper to sit still for a minute while he left the room. Not waiting for a reply to that order, he vanished out the door.

Obviously, Dipper wasn't going to listen. He lowered his legs to the floor. He would have loved to make a mad spring from the room but he didn't bother. Instead, the small rotation would have to be enough of a protest against the pirate. Enough of one that wouldn't get his teeth knocked out, probably. Dipper could hear the boot steps heading back and made a quick motion to stand. He kept his chin high as he watched the door. The pirate returned quickly and saw him there. He scoffed.

Bill looked at him steadily and wagged a disapproving finger at him. “Now, I told you to stay put,” he said walking back over.

“Go to hell, Cipher.” Dipper clenched his jaw. He knew this was going too far but his pride wouldn't keep his tongue still.

Bill's hand flew.

_SMACK!_

Dipper was on his back before he even realized he'd been struck. His world spun as he tripped backward over the loose blankets.

Stunned, gasping in shock, Dipper stared at the ceiling as he lay across the bed. His cheek stung, burning hot and tender. For a moment Dipper lay still, blindly staring through blurred eyed. Wetness the curve of his cheek bones, rolling back into his hair.

Bill lazily cracked his knuckled. “You don't know when to shut your mouth, kid. You want to try talking back to me now? Come on, Pine Tree, say something. I dare you.”

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't say more. This wasn't an empty threat. Dipper licked his lips and sucked in a breath. “Fuck you...”

Bill laughed hard. He reached out and roughly grabbed Dipper by the collar. In a jerky motion he pulled the light frame up from the mattress before shoving it back into the headboard. Dipper's spine slammed up against the thick wood bed-frame with a heavy _thud_. The kid tried to pull away from his touch but Bill was unyielding. He held him there, gathering the handcuff keys he'd gone to get. The key was slipped in and out of the lock quickly.

The response to being freed from the cuffs was completely expected. Dipper threw a punch but Bill knew it was coming. The pirate caught the fist and twisted, bending the thin arm in ways it shouldn't. The cabin was filled with screams of pain. Bill only stopped to moved Dipper back into place. He forced Dipper's arms up over his head. The handcuffs were wrapped behind the bed post and secured back in together. The boy thrashed wildly, trying to inflict harm to his captor. He was only going to hurt himself further doing stupid things like that. Bill grabbed Dipper by the jaw, fingertips digging into his skin and squeezing.

“I suggest, you learn to behave. Now you get to stay like this,” he said. Before he turned away, he pet the kid's hair back and ruffled it as if he were a dog.

Dipper pulled away first, a frown mixing with the look of pain on his face.

Bill left the kid there, laughing as he locked the door. It was for Dipper's safety more than anything else, so no one but himself could get in. He was confident that there was no escaping this time. Bill smirked widely.

The man left his cabin and started at a brisk walk down the hall. He ground a thumb into his temple, pressing down on the growing pain just below the surface. Bill groaned over the headache he was now developing. It added to the twinging of pain he often felt belong his eye-patch, the phantom throb of partially dead nerves and muscle tissue. It was too early for this kind of thing. The sun was barely up and he was already set in a bad mood.

He stepped on deck and found Tad already behind the wheel of the ship. The gentleman looked well rested despite the eventful night they both had. More than likely Tad didn't even think twice about it and slept well after dropping the boy at Bill's cabin. Tad was an indifferent man, not caring for most things. He especially didn't concern himself with the vendetta Bill held against the Pines family. He was just involved by job alone, being the first mate an all, but held no personal interest. He was clearly disappointed or annoyed that Bill took the nephew as prisoner, prolonging the feud.

Bill came up along side Tad, nodding as he approached. He acknowledged his captain with a salute and said nothing, passing over the wheel.

Bill dismissed Tad, waving him over to the ship's gauges. This was their typical morning routine. They had fallen into a comfortable formality with it ever since taking on their ship and handled it with such fluidity and organization that it only required the two of them to manage the bridge the majority of the time.

“Is he still being a problem?” Tad asked offhandedly after many minutes of silence. It didn't sound as if he really cared to know but asked out of courtesy or idol gossip. He probably saw the way Bill was rubbing his forehead and frowning.

Bill spared him a brief glance. He answered, short and clear. “I left him tied up in my room. He's no threat there.”

He leant on the wheel, turning his attention to the large window that stretched across the deck's far wall. It curved across the whole stretch of the deck, offering full view of the clouds before them. Outside the sun was up, light bouncing off the white clouds like they were fresh mounds of winter snow, plush and thick on a mountain side. It looked almost identical, one couldn't even tell they were so high off the ground, flying through the skies.

The large cabin itself was bathed in the sun's warm morning glow and Bill relaxed against the wheel, sighing with a deep contentment. A genuine smile played on his lips as his previous stress started to loosen from his muscles. This was one of his favourite places on the whole ship besides his own private quarters.

Being bathed in light and heat, was Bill's idea of heaven. And he told himself, that long after Stanford Pines was dead and burned, if he were to live long enough, he'd build a sturdy house, one that faced East. He'd set a large window into the main room that would catch all the morning sunlight. There he would spend his days, stretched out on a soft couch or thick rug, relaxing in the blissful gold sunshine. Maybe he'd get a dog for companionship. Bill hummed to himself, lost in his early morning daydreams of retirement.

Pretty soon his imaginary pet dog morphed into something with much longer legs, smooth skin, and less fur. His own head resting in the lap of his companion, pillows and blankets at his back. Fingers lazily running through his hair in soothing movements. A gentle mouth leaving worshipping kisses on his face and neck.

“-don't you think, Bill?....Bill?” Tad looked at his captain comfortably relaxing in the sun spot like a cat. He rolled his eyes and turned toward him fully. He said his name again but there was still no answer. So, Tad said something truly startling that would pull anyone out of even the most pleasant of dreams. “Bill, we've run out of alcohol.”

“What?!” Bill jumped, shocked and appalled. He looked at his first mate ready to shout orders if necessary.

“Hardly, there's more drinkable alcohol on this ship than fuel to run it.”

“Good! Fine. Whatever... Now, what are you blabbering about?” Bill asked, unhappy that his nap was ruined so rudely.

Tad came over to stand at his side, eyes fixed in silent interrogation. Bill tried to ignore how cool and calm the man stood, but he noted the way Tad's foot bounced uncontrollably, a dead give away that he was tense.

“I was speaking of our meeting tomorrow to sell your map,” Tad repeated. Bill was only partly listening, face falling blanket again. “Bill, focus! For god sake man... What is on your mind? Is this ridiculous behaviour because of Ford again?”

A valid assumption. Bill was always thinking about the old man, or seemed to be, plotting and scheming. Had been for years now...

“Ford... It's always Ford.” Bill groaned and turned his attention toward the window, wanting to crawl back into the sun's warm glow again and ignore his friend. He wanted to go back to his imaginary lover and the curious fingers working their way under his shirt. Bill wanted a lot of things, but there was no such luck to be had because Tad kept talking. His monotone voice nattering away in Bill's ear, keeping him from his fantasies.

“Ford is coming after us. You know he is. He wouldn't let you just walk away with his nephew.” Tad crossed his arms, a sceptical look crossing his face that Bill did not like. “You have yet to say a word to anyone about your 'new plan'. I'm starting to wonder if you even have one.”

“Of course, I have a plan,” Bill argued. Although truthfully, he only had half a plan at best and even those details he kept revising by the hour. “There are ideas...pieces...”

“We have other business to attend to, and now we have Ford hunting us down because you chose at the last minute to leave him alive, even if a little wounded. It's bad enough we have to dock for this meeting, which could very well be a trap may I add. For all we know, we could be walking into our meeting with-”

“Tad, I'm well aware it could be a trap. We run that risk every time we land. I don't think I have to remind you of the impressive bounty that'd been on my head for years now. Yet, I still haven't been caught off guard. So, thank you, I appreciate your input, but I'm fully _fucking_ aware!” Tad didn't even flinch at Bill sudden bad attitude or the raised voice. They had known each other for too long for anything to phase the second in command. Bill slapped his palm against the ship's wheel and continued to yell.

“And as for Ford, there is a plan. But as of right now, I am not prepared to tell you of it. Now, do your job and tell the men that there is in fact a plan, and if anyone questions me again on the subject, I will personally cut off their balls and make them wear them as earrings. That goes for you as well. Am I understood?”

“Of course, Captain.”

“If Ford wants to risk showing his face, I'm very well prepared. Let him come.”

Tad was silent for a moment, eyeing up Bill but not catching hint of a lie. He nodded finally and moved away. “Understood,” he added in a soft voice.

“Now, this meeting bullshit,” Bill addressed that point, going back to his restful lean on the wheel. His anger defusing gradually under the warm caress of sunshine. His daydream though did not return.

“Tomorrow when we go see that little fucker, I want you and a few men as backup. The more men we bring the more suspicious it'll look. If anything goes wrong, make sure the rest of the men are armed with guns from a vantage point.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bill chuckled passed the initial annoyance. He did always find the few hours leading up a business transaction a bit exciting. Some men died, some got rich, it was always a surprise. “This guy is paying a lot of money for a stupid map with no guarantee of it's accurate. He's a fucking moronic military brat with zero experience.”

“Well, he is new to his job. I'd say it's probably his first time dealing with any type of criminal... He's asking to be scammed,” Tad agreed turning to look at Bill. “You really can't trust pirates.”

“We're a terrible lot.”

This particular client was new to them and new clients come with a certain level of suspicion. However, over the years Bill and his crew gained mutual trust within certain ranks of the Navy. Bill worked tit for tat style with them. For the right price his services could be bought. It was a beneficial arrangement for all involved. There was a professionalism during meetings and exchanges, followed by a few days of agreed to peace. After that, all bets were off. Bill went back to his endless rampage and the Navy kept trying to catch him.

The new client, a new captain of his own little fleet – a title earned primarily due to family connection and money - had requested a map. Bill had a reputation, not just as a pirate but as a map cartographer. He'd been trained from a young age, starting out his career in piracy as a low ranked map maker. Now, people fought over his work. He'd done so much travelling in his life that his work possessed first hand details to places that no one else had ever been. The more you paid, the more details and hidden information Bill included. Some exposed treasure and wealthy settlements, rival territories, and safe passages for criminals. Hiding places. Dangers.

And some maps lead to absolutely no where.

The piece he currently was being commissioned for this time was very simple. He was to map out the coast line and whatever towns were rich with money and resources. Trade routs by land, sea and air. Common sightings for pirates and criminals. It was obvious to Bill that this new captain was already looking to climb the social ladder, prizing after something with prestige. Something that didn't run him the risk of being forced to the front line of fire in times of war. He'd been hired by a coward.

Bill judged him harshly. Putting himself on a platform high above common cowards. He may be a criminal, a murderer, often seen as insane or unhinged, but he had his pride. He'd never run from a fight or look away from bloodshed. Bill would face death with a wide smile and greet the Grim Reaper happily when his time came.

As much as he'd love to show his new client a little slice of reality, he had to behave.He had to pretend to be civil when dealing with anyone offering hundreds of thousands in gold and guns, and metal materials as payment. After all, he wanted the money.

“He'll take his map and run with his tail between his legs,” Bill said, confident of this fact.

Tad brought his captain a cup of strongly brewed coffee and gave him a friendly slap on the back. The man's silent support was greatly appreciated.

“Coffee? Nothing stronger?” Bill took the cup and stared at the dark hot liquid.

“Drink it or I will.” Tad went back to his work.

Bill muttered quiet insults under before taking a swig.

“Is the kid being fed at all today?”

It was an odd question for Tad to be asking. Of all people, Bill expected him to care the least. This included himself. For some reason, it didn't sit well with him. Bill looked over at him with a subtle frown, wondering why anyone would feel concern for his Pine Tree. It was his own business to do whatever he wanted with the little Pines.

“Why do you ask, Tad? Sweet on the kid?” Bill startled himself by how bitter and accusatory his voice sounded out loud. They hadn't meant to be anything more than a joke. His gut twisted, hating the implications of his own word. As self-punishment he took a full mouthful of the pipping hot coffee. It burned every corner of his mouth and throat as he swallowed it in one quick gulp. Bill sucked in a breath through his teeth to cool the now tender flesh of his tongue.

“Don't be an idiot. He's Ford's nephew,” Tad said. “Besides, he's not much to look at.”

Bill's temper flared. He threw the cup in his hand, satisfied as it shattered against the floor. He stood tall with his shoulders squared and stiff, challenging Tad to continue talking about his Pine Tree in such a way. The man slowly turned back to his work, subsiding to his Captain's posturing. Bill nodded, gripping tightly at the wheel.

This sudden behaviour confirmed all of Tad's fears. That kid was going to bring them a world of trouble. And when that time came, if Bill refuse to deal with it, he would.

Dipper didn't sit and accept being locked up. He verbally expressed how infuriated he was rather loudly, even though he knew no one would hear him or care if they did. As he screamed, he pulled on the handcuffs for what felt like hours but neither the metal or the solid wood frame would budge. There were now deep grooves left in the polished wood from were Dipper continuously sawed the short chain against the bedpost. There was nothing else he could do but uncomfortably sit with his arms raised. It was impossible to breaking the wood or metal. He couldn't pick the lock. Dipper was stuck without a key. Unless he chewed through the meat of his wrist and snapped the bone.

Unable to move more than an arms length, Dipper did the only thing he could in his position, he screamed out in anger, rattling the bedpost again and again. He would not be satisfied until the pole snapped off the frame. However, after hours the adrenaline in his system topped off and his body sunk into the mattress, limbs tired and head swimming. His face felt oddly flushed and hot. There was a heat in his ears that made him quite dizzy.

Worn out and now painfully aware of how hungry and thirsty he was, Dipper laid his head against the headboard. There was a velvet thick curtain hanging over the bed-frame like a covered top. It made for a soft cushion for his head to rest upon, at least enough for him to not feel the sharp wood edge dig into his skull. Dipper sighed, rubbing against the curtain for comfort. He licked his dry lips, unable to remember the last time he had any water. It had to already be his second day without a single drop. He couldn't remember if he had anything to drink back in his cell, only the barely edible food. There was still dust in his hair and some in his lungs from the air vent. And after all his screaming and fighting, his tongue felt like sandpaper inside his mouth. Dipper bit his lip and whimpered, pathetically desperate for a drink.

The back of his throat was irritated from his stubborn yelling and it made him roughly cough. For a moment Dipper closed his eyes and tried to calm down because the room was starting to spin and he feared he may be delirious. It may be pitifully funny, for who ever found him dead, to know he died of simple dehydration. Not murdered by pirated, no bodily hard or torture, but dehydration. Dipper gave a sad chuckle over the thought but it came out as more of a hoarse wheeze.

Physically exhausted but restless, Dipper fidgeted. His fingers scraped over the wood, digging into the grooved he made with the chain. The sharp pieces of splintered wood had long stopped hurting his fingers, arms and hands now weightlessly numb. The lack of blood flow was a morbid blessing this way. The cuffs had chaffed his wrists raw, had burned the skin as he moved, bit and cut into the flesh, pushing back layers. He knew there were splinters under his nails, but he could no longer tell how many. In fact, he could feel very passed his elbows. His mind was far more concerned about the dry burning in his lungs and in his throat.

Dipper broken the still silence of the room with a cracked cough. Quiet never use to bother him so much as it did here. At home, in his library, even at school, he enjoyed it. Dipper had spent an equal amount of hours in total silence, barely moving, too wrapped up in a book. He'd forget to eat or drink, even sleep, just as he had these passed few hours. But that was at home... Dipper missed his home.

Dipper glanced at the door again, every time with a heavy disappointed sigh.

“Alright, you insufferable pirate... any time now... Get back here... What does a pirate do all day anyway? Just... get back here and unlock me. Bastard! ...fucking bastard...”

Dipper groaned the pirate's name again and cursed him to hell and back.

Hours passed and sleep started to over take his dizzy sense of reality. The lights surged brighter and blurred. Dipper bit his lip hard. The sharp flavour of copper exploded onto his tongue. His tongue flicked out to catch the blood pearling along his bottom lip. He'd do anything for a single mouthful of water...

Through his haze, Dipper could hear the door unlock, the bolt knocking back in its casing heavily. The sound seemed muffled to his ears, almost unreal. Still he opened his eyes, lazily looking over to the door. Dipper half expected it to all be in his hear, but the door opened wide. For all his screaming and cursing, the fight was worn out of him and all he could do was stare as the door his smacked back into stray furniture, banging and rattling around before stilling.

Dipper was too tired to be angry. His fingers drummed incessantly against the bedpost and he greeted Bill with nothing more than a mildly bored expression.

The pirate moved about the cabin like Dipper wasn't even there. He never even spared him a fleeting glance as he strode by. He simply started to unbuckle a few of his holsters and hang them aside carelessly, whistling innocently as he did so. Dipper scoffed at Bill's blasé posture, showing his full back exposed and brass. Despite how it burned his throat, he spoke up, disregarding the dry crack in his voice.

“Well, you finally came back – that's unfortunate. I was enjoying you being gone. It's much quieter that way, lovely really.”

The pirate broke his silence with a lighthearted and all around cheery laugh.

“Really, Pine Tree? I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Though uhm...your voice, sounds kinda funny,” Bill said wagging a finger at him teasingly. “Have you been screaming all day for help, or crying like a baby?”

“More like singing for joy because you weren't around. I would have danced too if it weren't for these.” Dipper rattled his handcuffs before giving Bill a sarcastic smirk.

“Do you sing? I'd love to hear that.” Bill walked over. He could see how the kid's body sank with a distinct lack of strength, not laziness or relaxed, but bone-weary and weak. The pale skin looked almost grey and lifeless against a backdrop of curtains and blankets, all lively bright colours surrounding his sickened face. Even the fresh blossoming bruise over the kid's cheek looked mutes in colour. Bill reached out and lifted his chin with a light touch. Dipper turned his face away but there was no fire in him. The spark was gone from his fight. It was far less enjoyable than what it should be...

Bill frowned, not liking what he was seeing. He pulled back, looking to where the metal handcuffs had dug into his bedpost leaving deep grooves and ruining the varnish. “You've been a busy little worker bee. Trying to fly away again?” he asked.

“Might have given it a shot...” Dipper said. He wished he could maintain a witty tone or keep his smile up but it was taking all his effort to string together a coherent sentence.

“Let me guess, you're going to do this every fucking time I leave you alone.”

“Pretty much.” Well, he was being honest. He would always try and escape. That was unless the pirate broke all his bones and left him in a crippled mess to suffer on the cold floor.

Bill moved quickly, causing Dipper to visibly flinch back. The man's hands moved so fast by his head that Dipper was positive he was about to be struck. His eyes closed, shoulders tensing up to his ears. Waiting for the harsh slap or punch. Instead there was a jingle. The bedpost shook just a little but he was not touched. Then a weight was lifted off his arms. Hearing the click, Dipper opened one eye and found Bill leaning over him. The pirate's broad chest so close to his face. The fabric of his shirt hanging open. Dipper felt like he could swallow his own tongue.

The handcuffs were unlocks from each other and removed. Dipper was slow to lower his arms, expecting to be grabbed once more and forcefully moved elsewhere, or hurt, punched, and maybe just kicked off the bed. But nothing, the pirate stayed where he was, poised over head.

Bill moved slightly to prop himself against the wooden post, forearm holding himself up. He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, curious as he looked Dipper from head to toe. The boy smelt...

It was a menial thing to focus on, especial since he hung around his own crew mates who never bathed. The collective odour of his crew was petulant. This boy however, his little Sapling, was a well brought up lad with good personal grooming habits and knew that cleanliness is next to godliness. It was unfit for him to be covered in dirt and to wear soiled clothes like a common beggar. Dipper wasn't a lowly factory boy or a mine worker. He was sheltered lower middle class, spoiled and protected, and he should resemble as such if not better in Bill's presence.

Well, that would be ideal. Unfortunately, Bill didn't have any spare suits tucked away in the kid's size. So, the next acceptable option was for Dipper to at least wear clean clothes. Especially since they were currently sharing a bed. Bill moved away from the bedpost, letting the boy whimper as he nursed his reddened wrists and scabbing skin. Shuffling around, distractedly on a mission, Bill made sure there was clean water in the wash sink. There was still a square of soap sitting on the sink's rim and a towel – used but dry – hung on the wall.

“Alright, here's the deal, kid,” he said snapping his fingers before pointing at Dipper in warning. His voice was kept level and no smile crossed his face. “You're going to wash the hell up and put...these on.” Bill tossed a shirt onto the floor and a pair of pants to join it. They were both something from his own closet but they were old, too small and never worn by anyone. He wouldn't miss them.

“Then, and only then, are you allowed to eat something,” Bill continued walking back along side the bed. “You act up or do anything stupid and those handcuffs go back on and you stay that way for a long ass time. Do I make myself clear?”

Dipper nodded slowly. Not needing to be told twice he went to move, swinging his legs off the bed in one swift motion. The circulation hadn't quite made it back through his system though and a solid day of remaining in a cramped position left his limbs wobbly and useless. His legs buckled instantly as his feet touched the floor and Dipper collapsed. But he never made it to the floor. An arm snapped out to wrap around his torso, catching him as he fell. It held him easily with a strong grip. Dipper found himself pushing into the hold, grasping for needed support. His light body was picked up and held firmly so he could find his footing. He wanted to push away from he pirate's hold but he was sure he'd fall to his knees if he let go.

“Don't be so dramatic, kid. I've seen men get their leg hacked off and still try to run. You've got no excuse for this,” Bill barked at him.

Dipper winced and awkwardly allowed himself to be walked over to the wash sink. He put his hands on the smooth porcelain basin to hold himself up when Bill let go. As the arm slithered away, taking a protective heat with it, Dipper sagged forward on his elbows.

“Now, be quick. If I have to come back in here because you're taking too long then...uh... I'll feed you your own toe nails.” Bill waved Dipper off dismissively and indifferent. As much fun as it would have been to watch the boy undress and bathe himself over the sink, Bill denied himself that. All because it would have been _fun_ to watch the boy undress and bathe. All that pale skin, fragile, bruised and blushed in pink. Bill shook his head and banished all thought of such things.

He left the cabin as quickly as he could, leaving the trembling little lamb behind. He hadn't meant for his plans to take a turn quiet like this... Not that he had a real plan...

Bill closed the door, trying to physically separate himself from the boy and eliminate any sliver of temptation. The cure, the wonderful cure for his woes, Bill decided, were in the multitude of bottles stored on a near by shelf. Booze. Russian vodka. Tequila from Mexico. Rums, wines, brandy. Bill took a bottle filled with an amber liquor down from the shelf and popped the cork, wrenching it out of the bottle with an aggressive tug. The cork gave and came out with a loud _pop_.

Bill lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink of the strong alcohol. It was smooth and woody but he wasn't in the mood to saver the taste. Another swig, a mouthful, he swallowed and gave a heavy sigh.

Bill sunk down onto the couch, groaning over his own stupidity. He rolled the bottle in his hands, watching the brandy swirl and slosh inside the tinted glass. It had dawned on him too late just how much the boy was getting to him...

The first, and most obvious proof of this was the simple fact that the boy was alive. The pirate wasn't exactly known for keeping hostages alive for long. A couple of day at most, as long as a ransom was involved, something worth his while. If a person wasn't going to bring him in a hefty sum, they were useless to him and were on the chopping block in hours.

Sure, Dipper had the potential for being worth something. He was related to that blasted Pines, Ford. Holding him was a lovely lure for the old man, guaranteed to draw him into a trap. Though, Ford was already aware Bill had his nephew, so there was no reason to leave Dipper alive any longer. It was maintaining the illusion, letting Ford think Dipper was still safe and in one piece that was important.

Hell, he could be mailing back body parts by the day to torment his only friend. Yet, he wasn't doing that either!

Bill could so easily go into that room and slit that kid's throat. Toss the body over board, let the boy fall miles straight down to the ground below, limbs breaking apart on impact.

He took another long drink of his brandy...

Secondly, there was that damned attitude. The boy didn't know when to shut up and back down from a fight. He could be timid and scared into submission, but he was also stubborn and chose the worse times to force Bill's hand. Sometimes their little back and forth could be entertaining and humorous, but this constant disrespect was not acceptable. If it were anyone else, Bill would have at least lopped off a finger for every curse directed at him.

But _Mason_, 'Dipper', the Pines boy... Bill had barely touched him. A small bruise here or there but that was hardly an insufferable punishment. There were no deformed scaring or permanent damage. He was being too nice, and for what reason?

Then, just now... Bill took another drink, swallowing down mouthful after mouthful. Little drops of liquid overflowed passed his lips, escaping from the corners of his mouth and running down his chin. The bottle was pulled away. He took a deep breath and wiped his face dry on the back of a hand.

Just now, Dipper had fallen like the stupid little child that he was. He had crumpled like some weak damsel in need. And Bill had actually caught him. It was impulsive, some crazy physical reaction that had him reaching out and protecting that smaller body. He scolded himself for being caring and gentle with that little shit heel kid. But it was like his body moved on itself own accord, magnetised by the boy and latched onto him for dear life.

When Bill took a moment to himself and closed his eyes, wide brown eyes stared back at him. One moment they were hard and dark, accusing and hate filled. The next they were pools of melted chocolate beckoning him closer. Bill snarled through clenched teeth. His perfect mind betrayed him, painting the kid as something special, something other than what he truly was. His hostage was Ford's nephew, a Pines. He was a nuisance. This strange infatuation had to end there.

A fantasy, that's what it was. Nothing more. Bill stood, firm in his resolve. He dragged himself over to his desk, keeping the brandy bottle with him. Taking a seat he swung his legs up onto the desktop. He reminded himself of the goal: kill Ford, kill the kid, move on with his life. There was no reason to change those plans now, no getting attached to someone allotted to die. Another mouthful of brandy...

Bill quietly slid open a lower drawer and took out the leather bound journal he stole off the kid. He had read it cover to cover the second he got back to his cabin. Parts of it were absolute bullshit Ford had picked up on the road, recounting stories of crimes he shockingly was not involved with. Other parts were true, old, irrelevant, yet accurate.

He set the brandy bottle down in favour of passing the book between his hands, feeling the smooth well-kept binding. The book spine was developing a seam, ruining the perfect curve. Bill had marked a passage in the middle of the book, sickly favouring it over the rest. He opened the book to this page. He ignored the words, instead scanning over the sketching of an old steam train that Bill recognized all too well.

The page marker slid off the page and into his lap. It jingled delicately, chains rustling as it fell. The bell-like tune caught Bill's heated attention. He looked to where it lay across his leg for a moment like it would magically start to sing again. Yet it lay still. He picked it up in his fingers. The little links were hooked together again, tangling in a mess of silver. What was once Dipper's ear cuff was now a mess of chains in his palm. Bill rolled it under his thumb, played with the silver. The simple piece of jewellery did look good on the little brat...

Bill frown, brow creasing deep on his forehead. This had to end. He dropped the earring back into the book and snapped it shut once more.

“Little shit... Childish brat...” Bill grabbed the bottle again and drank it dry. “Got to kill him. Gonna have to kill him. Need him gone...”

The door to his cabin creak hesitant and slow. Bill let out a huffed breath, pressing the cool glass of the liquor bottle to the throbbing pain beneath his eye-patch. He glanced over to where he knew the kid was hovering in the door frame like a pesky insect.

“Hurry it up, Pine tree.”

He could have dropped the bottle in surprise, not finding a blithering child but an angel at his door.

Dipper had watched the door close. He remained frozen in place, afraid to move long after he'd been left alone. He expected the pirate to come back almost immediately, impatient or suspicious of leaving Dipper alone and free to move about the cabin. Except, the door remained firmly shut, and Dipper allowed himself a small sigh of relief. With the door closed there was a comforting illusion of safety that helped him relax.

Dipper leaned forward over the basin. It still felt like his legs would give out at any second. The effort it took to stand was staggering. His knees wobbled under his own weight. The feeling of pins and needles were stabbing up through the soles of his feet as if he were walking on broken glass.

Dipper lowered his head to the sink. Cautiously he examined the water. It looked clean. It didn't smell like copper or any other strange metal that might have bled in through the pipes. His fingers slid off the rim of the sink and dipped under the water. It wasn't hot water ideal to bathe in but it also wasn't freezing cold. The back of Dipper's throat flared up, scratching and making him cough once more.

Unable to take it any longer he dunked his hand under the water, cupping as much as he could and brought it to his lips. It softened the dryness, bringing wonderful relief to his throat. Dipper greedily scooped more water into his mouth, gulping back mouthfuls. He relished in the feeling of clean water coating his tongue. It splashed everywhere, dripping over his lips and chin.

Dipper lowered his head to drink directly from the sink, desperate to have his fill. He forced himself down to the point where water washed up his nose. Still, he drank whatever he could back until he was sure the sink would run dry. Dipper pulled back, coughing and gasping, feeling liquid seeping into his air pipe. He choked up spit and water, tried to replace the moisture in his lungs with air.

Dipper took a few deep breaths, chest shaking as he exhaled. Water had soaked his collar and down the front of his shirt. His sleeves were now wet and dripping. Droplets trickled down his neck, slipping over his collarbone, dragging dirt over his skin.

What was left in the sink was a small puddle of brown water. His hands were still dirty, coated and caked in dust and grease, wood chips were under his nails. The water had soaked just enough dirt away to expose a blackened scab that had formed over his palm, closing the long cut there. Dipper groaned, disgusted by how thick his skin felt with the layers of grime covering him, how dangerous it was around his broken skin. A part of him felt that no matter the amount of soap or hot water, no matter how long he scrubbed, he would never be completely clean. He would forever feel layers of dirt and dried blood on his skin, dream like illusion of scabs and grit.

Dipper desperately wished for a bathtub full of steaming water, not a cold sink and a square of soap. He wanted to sink deep inside a tub and let the water cover him from toe to nose. He wanted a large bar of soap and cleaner. However, he could have none of this right now.

Defeated, Dipper looked at what clothes were left for him to change into. They lay by his feet in a messy pile of fabric. It was an uncomfortable idea, taking his clothes off here of all places. Even though he was alone it was like there were eyes on him everywhere. He swallowed, embarrassed and unsure. But now his own clothes were soaked through...

The water was emptied down the drain and refilled, Dipper adjusted the knobs seeing if warmer water was an option. It took a minute but finally some heat was given off. He refilled the sink and lathered a little soap in his hands. Before he even considered undressing he cleaned his hands and tended to his cut. It wasn't the easiest of tasks when there were no medical wrappings or anything to clean the wound besides a chunk of glycerine soap. The water stung his tender palm, cracking through the thick dried out scab. Dipper hissed in discomfort. He prayed it did not get infected.

More water and he was able to scrub his face. His bangs hung in his eyes, wet strands gluing themselves to his skin. It took quite a bit of manoeuvring but he found a way to wet his whole hair, scrub the gunk from his scalp. The dirt was removed from his ears. A quick rinse and Dipper was actually starting to feel clean again, more normal.

A weeks worth of built up sweat and dirt was being washed away, revealing his familiar freckle coated skin. Though he found scrapes under layers of dust. Bruises appeared. Dipper ignored them the best he could, patting them with soap gentle to be cleaned.

Once started, Dipper couldn't stop. He quickly undid his shirt and shimmied the wet material down his arms. He was leaving large puddles at his feet but he didn't care. Warm water was cupped and splashed over his skin, running in rivers over his chest and down his stomach. His pants were soaked, as were is socks. That was fine.

There was more hesitation when it came to removing his pants, to stand around in his under clothes. Reluctant but knowing he should, Dipper undid the fastening at his waist. He cast a quick look over his shoulder, happy to see the door still closed. As he undressed, he made sure to keep all his belongings together. The shirt was folded with the vest still looped in the sleeves. The pants were set aside with them for safe keeping. Socks came off. His shoes were left to the side.

Dipper scrubbed ever inch of him that he could reach, careful of abrasions and the raw worn skin. He grabbed the towel after his work was done and dried off. Everything tingles from the aggressive cleaning but it strangely felt good. Dipper ruffled his wet hair with the towel. His curls bounced back and stuck up in all directions. He thought of trying to smooth them down but he had no one to impress, no social standard he had to live up to. The idea was ridiculous now. He, as a prisoner, thinking of styling his hair. He drained the sink of the dirty water.

The clothes left for him were thankfully nowhere near as embellished or heavily decorated as the rest of the pirate's vibrant wardrobe. Dipper placed the clothes on the bed so he could dress. He'd been given short black trouser the would stop mid calf and a white high collared shirt. There were little gold buttons on the shirt that went all the way down the front. He touched one of the buttons, wondering if it was made from real gold. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Cipher would go through the trouble of having gold buttons made for all his clothing. The man was an eccentric dresser after all. As gaudy as Dipper felt it was, he chose not to complain when presented with fresh clothes.

He slipped the shirt on and found it too big in the shoulders. The sleeves were too long and loose, sliding down when Dipper pushed them up to his elbows. So, he rolled up the sleeves instead. It scrunched and wrinkled the fabric terribly but he assumed Bill wouldn't care. Dipper looked down at his hands and saw how red his wrists were now. The skin was bruising quickly where the metal had been, leaving defined bands around his arms. Bits of skin flaked from the friction burns. Dipper rolled down his sleeves again to hide such a sight.

Dipper hated to admit that his under clothes were also dirty and wet. He wanted to leave them on but found it pointless to change if he were going to remain in something soiled underneath it all. He shyly slipped out of them and grabbed for the trousers left for him so he could cover up. They fit well enough to be passable. Dipper buttoned the shirt but didn't care to tuck it in at the hem.

He felt lost inside the loose fabric but still comfortable, and less restricted than in his own dress clothes. Sock-less, shoe-less, Dipper stood in pirate's garb. He felt a little ashamed find a sense of warmth and contentment this way. Dipper raised a sleeve to his face and breathed in the sent of the fabric. It was musty from storage, smelling like polished wood, but beyond that was a pleasant smell of leather and Indian patchouli. Cologne long since embedded into the woven material of thick cotton. It smelt like Bill.

He looked at the door again wondering if he should join the man. It would be for the best. There was a fine line between lenient and taking advantage with this man and Dipper didn't want to over step his bounds when it came to Bill's _kindness_. He'd been given a chance to bathe and clean clothes to wear, there was a promise of food, and he'd been blessed with privacy. Dipper was grateful despite himself.

A voice in his head told him not to trust it, to not let himself get comfortable. This bizarre string of good luck was bounce to run its course. At that time Dipper was sure he'd be on the receiving end of a gun shot.

Bill would eventually kill him if he didn't do something first.

Dipper looked to where one of Bill's holsters hung off the wall, a gun still tucked away inside. He walked over to it. Never in his life had he fired a gun, though Stan had offered to teach him. He reached out with a light finger and touched the handle. It wouldn't work, he knew that. Dipper didn't know if the thing was loaded, or how to even check. With his luck, he would shoot himself in the foot instead of Bill.

He stepped away. Beside him on an old chair was another concealed weapon. A knife that had a brown handle wrapping. It wasn't long or thick, easily tucked away in a sleeve or boot. It was like the world was testing his reserve, trying to find at what point he'd snap and commit murder, offering opportunity and chance.

With a shaking hand and slow hesitant movements, Dipper pulled the knife from its casing. It weighted little in his hand, slipping into his palm comfortably. The slightly curved metal came to a sharp point at the end. One quick stab to the throat...

_Aim for an artery_, he told himself. _Minimize the time it'd take for him to bleed out... As close to the heart as possible_.

Dipper cringed, disgusted with himself. However, he had to do something. Kill or be killed. The morals of man now banished for simpler animalistic behaviours. His moral dilemma was swayed heavily toward the route of violence. Although while his mind was made up, Dipper prayed for spiritual forgiveness for what he was about to do.

He held the knife tightly in his hand before moving it behind his back. He turned towards the door.

Dipper inched forward, dragging his bare feet over the cold floor. His hand fell onto the door's latch and he pulled. The heavy metal gave under his will, opening back slowly.

Dipper only opened the door enough for him to stand pressed between the frame and the metal, barely viable in the gap. Scared, hesitant, unsure, he bit down on his lip. He wanted to retreat back inside.

Near by Bill was sitting at his desk, appearing to relax with a drink. The man turned in his chair to look as the door creaked on its hinges. For a second that cold yellow eye looked wide and warm with flakes of melted gold.

Dipper stilled his shaking limbs, fingers tightening around the knife handle. He took a slow breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the wonderful comments so far! They have all been so nice and supportive. I'll try and get the next chapter out a little quicker than this one did.
> 
> As a future thought, for future stories, would anyone want to see more angsty themes or fluffy domestic stuff?? You can all vote on that over the next few chapters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the previous chapter, you could say. Some questions get answers, some alluded to, some brought up, etc. Enjoy!

There wasn't much left in life that stirred Bill's emotional side, unless it fell along side anger or lust. He knew little happiness or sorrow. Little could move his soul and leave him speechless. Bill had travelled the world. Seen sights few men had ever seen. The highest cliffs, rushing waterfalls and skies of rich reds and blues. Oceans full of strange fish. Exotic birds perched in their natural habitat, not caged in a zoo. He'd watched the sun rise behind a snow capped mountain range. Sights any other man would claim be taken aback by and reclaim his faith, declaring that there was beautiful in the world that could only be created by a God.

Bill however was jaded, lived the life of excess and held no shame for that. He possessed more gold than some kings. Held jewels of great value in his hands, wealth that some would never see in a thousand life times. He had a Tahitian pearl fashioned into a hatpin for the simple luxury.

Whatever desire overtook him, he acted on. Sins of the flesh, greed, wrath, pride, envy, gluttony or sloth. All the biblical sins as well as man-made ones created for people like him.

Bill did not believe in a God. Though he found the idea amusing. Devils were his favourite. He like to hear the religions of other countries, relishing in their variations and similarities. It made him chuckle. Bold to say so, he considered himself as powerful as any God and as cruel as any Devil.

No, there was very little in the word that could make Bill stop and stare, leaving him breathless and in awe. However, the sight of his little Pine Tree, framed by the door, Bill couldn't find words to describe such a thing. He looked surprisingly different yet again, little a clever little chameleon that could change its colouring at will. The kid was only clean, that was the difference that Bill couldn't seem to grasp. There was just something about that... He was fresh faced, the pink sun-kissed rose returning to his cheeks. Drops of water still clung to his hair, dampening the curls that were springing back to life. No, Bill decided that this was a different boy entirely, not the brat he'd left in his cabin moments ago, nor the dress up doll he'd taken hostage.

The kid hovered just half hidden by the large door, cream coloured skin standing out against the dark metals, looking all the more supple and warm. He looked hesitant and scared, brow lightly lifting, eyes growing big as they stared at one another.

What really had Bill feeling thoroughly stunned was seeing his Sapling dressed in Bill's own clothes. He'd left them for the boy to change into, but he had no idea the sight would send such a thrill up his spine. It was like the simple old pieces of clothes had always belonged to his Pine Tree, like he should wear nothing but – if he were to wear anything at all.

A growing possessiveness took control of Bill's mind, staring at Dipper like he was a new treasure for the taking. Foolish of him really, when he had decided so solidly that he was to slaughter such a little deer. Still, he could not take his eye off the uncomfortable kid fidgeting in his doorway. Against his better judgement, all Bill could think of was how much he wanted to posses the boy, to treasure and spoil him as his own shiny new toy.

Bill blinked, breaking whatever spell had fallen over him. He growled in annoyance and turned back to his desk in one fluid movement.

Dipper shifted, not sure of what to do. Hidden behind the door and out of sight from the pirate, he pulled the knife closer behind his back. He bit his lip hard, not finding the courage in him to step out into the next cabin. Until he was given no choice but to move.

“Don't just stand there,” Bill barked out coldly.

Swallowing his fear, Dipper slipped the knife into the waistband of the trousers. He tugged the long shirt over top hoping to hide it there long enough to get close. If he could manage to get close without giving himself away. His fingers were shaking badly from nerves. To keep them sill, he fisted his hands into the fabric of the cuffs. Dipper told himself he could do this.

One tired, unused feet, Dipper took a few cautious steps out in to the next room. He never took his eyes off the pirate, watching him closely as he moved forward. Bill had turned partly away, focusing his attention toward the mostly empty bottle in his hand. Dipper could tell it was liquor from the colour and shape of the bottle. Though he would have assumed the same if he'd been drinking from a solid tin pitcher. He doubted the man would drink anything besides booze. The closer Dipper came the easily he could smell it. There was a sharpness in the air that reminded him of his uncle Stan far too well.

Dipper's slow inching forward across the rug came to a stop. He stood like stone among the ornate furniture, trying to blend in as if he were a statue. He didn't know what kind of state the pirate was in now that he'd been drinking. He'd seen people take to drink in different ways, being lulled to sleep by it or thrown into fits of rage. Bill, he assumed, had a high alcohol tolerance but Dipper couldn't be completely certain. So, he stood watching him, wanting to keep a distance between them to be safe.

It took a minute for Bill to notice he was there, looking back briefly. A strange look crossed his face that Dipper couldn't quite read. It softened his brow line slightly making the man look almost approachable. The look was fleeting however, and his face was hard as marble once more. He stood sharply from his chair. It made Dipper jump back a step. The man marched around the large wood desk. The liquor bottle that Bill carried was shoved at Dipper to take, or else it'd be dropped at his feet. He then pushed by, striding over to grab a second bottle off a near by shelf. There was a strange spring in his step and to Dipper's bewilderment, the pirate was whistling.

“Take a seat, Pine Tree,” Bill said, waving toward a plush couch.

Dipper didn't move from where he stood. He held the bottle to his chest but honestly he never planned to drink it.

Bill ignored him standing there, moving around him like he couldn't even see him. Now supplied with a fresh drink, he went back to sit behind his desk. He sunk into the seat, lazily swinging his feet onto the table top. Only now did Bill turn his eye toward Dipper.

“Sit,” he instructed firmly. “Have a drink. Stay a while.”

Dipper understood that this wasn't a pleasant invitation but an order. Especially with the way Bill was watching his every move now. He took a deep breath and sidestepped toward the couch. It was impossible for him to get comfortable under the scrutinising gaze of the pirate, but also the fact that there was a very sharp knife down the side of his pants which he could feel pressed to his skin of his thigh. He was careful when he moved, afraid to cut himself on accident and get found with a weapon on him. Dipper lowered himself down to the cushion, remaining delicately perched on the edge.

Bill chuckled at him, hopefully taking his hesitation as fear directed toward him and not the blade poking into his leg. Dipper frowned at him, wanting to slide to the furthest corner of the couch.

The pirate effortlessly uncorked the bottle and held it out in cheers before he took a long, satisfying mouthful of alcohol.

Dipper looked down at the forgotten bottle in his hands. It was slim and tall necked with tinted glass. The label along the side was stark white in contract against the dark glass, with flourished red calligraphy written across it. Honestly, he wasn't sure what it was but it looked expensive, something the Northwest's would serve at one of their parties.

He lifted the bottle and took a small breath. Immediately the strong sent filled his nose and burned. He didn't even have to taste it to feel its sting at the back of his throat. Dipper scrunched his face.

Bill laughed at the way the boy timidly inspected the bottle. It wasn't poisonous or anything. It was high quality brandy, perfectly aged and smooth on the tongue. That wasn't something you turned your nose up at. Still, it was cute – in a silly, child like way – to see his Pine Tree cough on a man's drink. If the boy so desired, he'd be brought chilled champagne or fruit wines on request...

Bill broke away from that train of thought by taking the cork from his own bottle, breaking it in half between his fingers and throwing it at Dipper's head. The boy barely saw it coming and jumped. The cork bounced off the wall next to him.

“Have a drink, Pine Tree. Or are you not old enough to handle your liquor?” he asked with a smirk.

Dipper rolled his eyes. “I've told you this already. My name,” he groaned. “Is Dipper. If you keep doing this-”

“Yeah, I know. I remember. I choose to ignore this.”

“You're ridiculous. I'm going to start calling you something embarrassing, see how you like it.” Because that would prove anything... Maybe how immature two grown men could behave. Dipper winced. This wasn't some argument with his sister, he had to be smarter.

“I'd probably kill ya,” Bill cut in. “I do remember telling you specifically to call me _Cipher_ or _Captain_. Now who's hasn't been listening.”

“Yes, I remember, Bill...” Dipper said the man's name quieter than the rest but he heard it all the same.

“Excuse me?” Bill drummed his fingers on the desk. No one outside Tad called him that really. And for good reason, it was far too personal and disrespectful toward a captain like himself. He felt his eye twitch and he scoffed at the name. The kid smirked at him for what had to be the first time. It was small, a stupid little self-satisfied smirk for getting under the pirate's skin. It had Bill wanting to do many regretful things.

“I said, Bill,” Dipper repeated. The name fell softly from his lips like a gentle beckon. He even had the audacity to lift the brandy bottle, as if to drink from it. Long fingers curled around the bottle neck. The wide cuffs of Bill's shirt rid up, showing off the pretty red, cut up skin of his wrist. He looked positively ravished and worn out from hours of being tousled about the bed.

“You did, huh?” Bill took a long drink, and then another after he stopped for air. “You sure did. Now... you. Drink.”

Dipper sighed. He didn't notice how Bill stammered over his words, or how he was avoiding eye contact now. He raised the liquor bottle to his lips, though he did not really wanting to drink it. It smelled like wood varnish and looked similar by colour. It was far less appealing than he expected expensive alcohol to be. Still, Dipper pretended to take a sip. The liquid caressed his lips and Dipper pulled the bottle away, grimacing over the taste that lingered on his mouth. He wiped the wetness from his lips on his sleeve. He hear Bill's constant chuckle and looked up just as another piece of cork hit him square in the forehead.

“Stop that! What are you, six?” Dipper almost yelled at him. Unintentionally his tongue swiped over his wet lips and he made loud noises of disgust. It tasted exactly how Dipper imagined varnish to taste, strong and burning on his tongue.

Bill watched the boy whine and pout his thin pink lips. He knew now that they would taste like rich brandy. To him, not an unpleasant taste.

However, it was a thought he would have to be content with for now, because he would not dwell on the appealing sight of Dipper rewetting his lips. He drank another mouthful of booze trying to wash away the obnoxious thoughts of the boy. Like that could ever be possible... At this rate he was going to get blind drunk and bend his sweet Pine Tree over the top of this very desk.

Bill could stab himself in the leg he was so tense. His slightly more intoxicated mind only rattled off more imaged against his will, mainly of that thin body, undressed and pale, face down over the hard table top, begging for him.

“Fucking hell...” Bill said under his breath and drank more. He was a disgusting son of a bitch...

There came a loud knock on the door. Bill was for once grateful to have his privacy interrupted. He yelled after the knock, allowing whoever it was to enter. He leant back in his chair, watching the door be pushed open. It was one of the kitchen hands bringing their food right on time.

The pathetic looking man hobbled through the cabin, a metal leg creaking under his weight. Dipper was shocked to see such a contraption thrown so hazardously together. There was no real working gear system to the fake leg. It was as good as two metal pipes connected with a hinge. He'd seen better ones that would cause less pain when walking. Dipper's brow sympathetically creased.

As soon as a large tray was set on the desk, Bill did a fine job of scaring off the kitchen hand with nothing more than a glare and a show of teeth. The man went tripping out of the cabin faster than Dipper was convinced anyone in such a condition could move. Bill had quite the influence over his crew if he could instil fear and obedience in them with a single look. And there he was, sitting a few feet away from such a man. The knife pressing into his skin was no longer a comforting illusion of protection.

Dipper turned his eyes down until the door slammed shut. He fidgeted awkwardly in his seat. Absentminded, he raised the bottle to his lips but remembered all too quickly what was inside the bottle and changed his mind.

“Help yourself,” Bill said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

Dipper raised his head and found Bill gesturing to the tray with a wave of his hand. For a moment he didn't move, only sat there staring. The pirate was getting comfortable, knocking back what was left in the bottle he held onto in a vice grip. Hesitantly, Dipper stood up and slowly moved toward the desk, dragging his feet over the rugs.

He set the bottle on the table, much rather wanting the food laid out in front of him. Bill could have sprouted a second head or a second set of arms. He could have disappeared off the face of the Earth for all Dipper cared, because once he saw real food nothing else existed. There was a turn of his stomach, reminding him how painfully hungry he was and Dipper's mouth watered. It was impossible for him to tear his eyes away from the heavenly sight of fresh bread, roasted potatoes, thick cuts of warm cured ham, and fruit. Bright red apples. Dried apricots. And a bowl of nuts. He hadn't seen food like this in days and it honestly made him want to cry from the pure joy it brought him.

He couldn't stop himself. Dipper grabbed a chunk of potato and shovelled it into his mouth. It burned his tongue as he chewed, but the simple flavour was amazing. His taste buds screamed out in bliss over the piping hot, plain roasted potato. Dipper stuffed his face. He couldn't even be bothered to remember to breathe between chewing and swallowing. If he choked and died, he'd die with a full stomach and he'd be happy.

Dipper glanced up. Across the small space Bill had his usual toothy grin on his face, looking oddly entertained by Dipper's eating. He blushed, embarrassed for eating so rudely. He averted his eyes and wiped his hands clean on the knees of his pants. His mother would have scolded him and slapped his hands for such bad manners. Trying to be polite, Dipper awkwardly picked up a dried apricot and ate it like the gentleman he had been raised to be.

Partially hidden under the tray, and under Bill's boots, Dipper caught sight of a map splayed out over the desk. He tilted his head to the side, inspecting what he could make out from where he was. Curious, he moved around to investigate the heavily detailed coastal outline, drawn in smooth black ink on a thin piece of tanned hide.

There were pictographs of rocks and shallows along the coast. Inland markings for woods and mountains. Some details were drawn in white, some in red, whatever the significance was lost on Dipper. He popped the rest of the apricot in his mouth and reached out a finger. The tip of his index finger traced over gold ink that speckled across the map like star dust.

“Interested in maps? I make the best maps,” Bill boasted, cleaning out a nail with a small fruit knife that had come in with the tray. He had picked it up at some point. Clearly, he had either grown tired of his drink or had finished it off. Now he was intently following Dipper with his eye.

Dipper swallowed and turned back to the map just to avoid looking at the pirate. Sketched out in white was a crescent moon shaped mountain range he recognized all too well. It was the outskirts of Gravity Falls. His brow creased. It was a rarity that his town was ever mentioned on a map. The area was too remote and not many people visited, not even in passing. Dipper missed his home...

The quiet country side and thick woods. Dipper had been content there, with no real motivation to travel or any intent to leave permanently. His family was there and his friends. It was his home and he'd felt safe. Something he'd probably never feel again if he made it off this ship alive. Besides, he was God knows where. If – _when_, he promised himself – he got on solid ground, he'd have to find his way back. Now that seemed like a dream and he was reaching for the impossible.

Dipper's heart fell. He missed his home, missed his family. How was Mabel doing without him there? Were his parents safe and well? Had everyone made it out of the fire? There was no doubt in his mind that both Ford and Stan were alive. He wouldn't allow doubt to sully such a belief. They were fine, patched up and healing. And they were going to come find him. They had to be on their way right now. Dipper was sure of it.

“No one ever knows where Gravity Falls is. It's not big enough to be put on maps,” Dipper said quietly. “A lot of people haven't even heard of it...”

“True, but I've been there before,” Bill admitted. “Passed through with an old friend or two.”

Dipper gripped the edge of the desk to ground himself, feeling the anxiety bubbling up in his chest. All the tension in his joins tightened, winding tighter and tighter, ready to snap. He wanted to scream, wanted to make Bill pay for everything he'd done to his home. The fire, the potential death, the pain and torment. The pirate should pay for his crimes. His family deserved that in the least. Dipper's finger tips dug into the wood. His knuckles started to hurt from the force of his grip, but he didn't let go knowing he'd break and take a terribly planned swing at the pirate's head. If he did that he would loose all chance of harming him with his own knife.

Dipper grit his teeth, holding himself still. “I swear to fucking God, Bill, if you dare-”

“Watch your religion, Pine Tree. Or else you'll be no better than a pirate,” he whispered his words like they were for Dipper's ears alone.

Bill stood up, the little fruit knife he held was dropped to the chair. He moved around the desk at an agonisingly slow pace, like a predator closing in on its prey. Bill ran his fingers over the desk top in long lazy drags. He let them come to rest inches from Dipper's left hand. The smile he wore slipped, dissolving from internal amusement to a more serious, personally satisfied turn of his mouth, as if Bill was somehow deeply pleased with their closeness.

Dipper tried not to flinch away as the man leaned in next to him. He could feel Bill's hot breath on the skin of his ear. It tickled and smelt of liquor. His body shook, uncomfortable.

“You... I should... fuck...” he stammered quickly under his breath.

“What's that, Pine Tree? Got something you wanna say to me?”

Dipper clenched his eyes tight for a brief moment. His right hand slipped off the desk, carefully reaching below the hem of his shirt for the knife handle. It was smooth under his fingers and the weight was becoming terrifyingly familiar. The weight of danger and risk. The feeling of holding both life and death in one of his trembling hands. Discreetly, barely moving inch by inch, he started to pull the knife free of his clothing.

Gathered what bravery he could find inside him, Dipper started to mutter over senseless words, unable to find anything to say at a time like this. His eyes opened, blinking rapidly. Bill moved a little closer to him, bringing a hand up to softly caress a curl at Dipper's hairline. The finger twisted the lock of hair, tickling his neck. He hummed in his ear softly.

The uneasy twist deep in Dipper's stomach settled, the nerves subsiding. His fingers tightened around the knife handle. There was still a minute tremble in his limbs, but he felt more sure of himself. Nothing would make him change his mind now. He was no better than a pirate, no higher than such a low moral system of choice. Revenge, survival, it didn't matter. Dipper couldn't see the difference. All he knew was that he hated Bill, and that the man should die. He wouldn't allow himself to feel remorse and guilt for ending a horrible life.

Dipper frowned, turning toward Bill slowly.

He swallowed his fear and took a swing.

The knife cut through the air, sharp point coming down for Bill's collar in a perfectly smooth arch. The young man's full strength went into the downward stab, fist tight on the handle. Dipper closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

His wrist was grabbed mid air by the pirate's hand. Fingertips dug painfully into the raw, pushed back skin of his metal burn. They sunk between the tendons of his arm. A bone popped and Dipper's hand snapped back, knife falling aside. It clattered against the desk. Dipper gasped in pain.

Bill quickly pulled him by the arm, stretching it out over the table and out of use. He pinned the thin limb down, watching as Dipper's body bowed to his hold, falling backwards across the wood. The whole table rattled from the force. The tray near by rocked, bits of food falling across the desk and onto the floor.

Dipper struggled against the hold, fighting to free himself, to finish what he'd started. He ground his teeth and tried to regain his footing. Furious, Dipper shoved himself off the desk, refusing to give in. He wobbled and tripped but made a solid swing at Bill, fist aimed for his face.

The punch was ill directed. The pirate caught his hand in a tight grasp before it came anywhere near its desired target. A finger nail bit into the scab of Dipper's palm, pushing back the thick dried callous. Bits of blood pooled and stung as freshly healing skin was ripped apart again. The kid let out a weak cry but it wasn't good enough. Angry, Bill pushed him down, easily keeping him in place by the wrists.

Like a fluid dance, two bodies moving together. Effortless and quick. Mere seconds was all it took to disarmed and restrained Bill's sweet Sapling.

Dipper was bent over the desk until he way laying across the top, arms stretched over his head. The desk dug into his lower back and spine painfully. He couldn't find leverage to push himself off the desk or sit up. His heels could only hit the side of the desk with a loud thud. Still, frantically he continued to kick. And when that got Dipper nowhere, he chose to scream,

“You fucking bastard! Let me go!” His voice was loud and full of pure anger and hatred. Dipper didn't shy away from the pirate's gaze, but met it with bold pride. “Why are you doing all this? What did my uncle ever do to you? Let me go! We did nothing. Leave me and my family alone!” Dipper struggled and jerked his body trying to pull away. “I hope you fucking rot in a cell somewhere, left to die like a pathetic rat!”

The pirate didn't even bat an eye over being yelled at. His face remained hard and emotionless. The lack of reaction just made Dipper angrier. He snarled like an animal and thrashed around wanting to strike the pirate at least once.

Cipher tighten his grip on Dipper's wrists. Under his hold the bones felt the force, joint popping and bending at his will. A cry of pain and the fingers curled back. With just a little pressure he could easily break the thin bones at his finger tips. Cipher smiled softly, almost with a polite tenderness.

“Watch your tone with me, Dipper,” he warned. He bent over the boy's heaving chest. The thin body was practically vibrating under him with impassioned rage.

Without warning Cipher came in very close to his face. Their eyes locked, silent heated thoughts passed between them in their held gaze, infinite arguments being hold within a timeless dimension.

One of Dipper's wrists was freed slowly, Cipher's hand slipping away. Dipper didn't let a second pass by before he grabbed for the pirate's shirt collar. He tried to grind the heel of his palm into the man's chest. But his joint throbbed terribly, pain radiating up his arm, taking away his ability to fight. So Dipper clung to the man, sadly handing over control of his body and life to a stark raving madman. He tried to lean back, wanting to get away but there was nowhere to go. Dipper shook his head to the side, hair falling into his face.

Cipher reached out and felt around for the dropped weapon. He loosely picked it up and held it so it would be visible to Dipper. It casually lay in his palm like the sharpened blade was as harmless as a feather. The kid sucked in a breath seeing it laying in his hand. His attention was no where else. Cipher clicked his tongue and gave Dipper a degrading _tsk_ before telling him to 'hold still' in a low, commanding voice.

The boy complied, seemingly afraid enough to finally follow orders. Cipher pressed the flat face of the blade against Dipper's reddened cheek, turning the face back to meet his own. He looked into the widened eyes and let out a calm breath. In Dipper's thrashing about, his hair had parted just so that Cipher's eye caught sight of a familiar little pattern marked into pale skin. He slid the blade up over the kid's brow, making him squeak and tense with fearful anticipation.

Dipper's whole body was shaking, positive that he would get cut open. The blade would be twisted into his skin and he would bleed thick steams of blood. He felt the smooth metal slide across his forehead. His heart thumped in his chest from the sudden rush of adrenaline. His stomach turned, imaginary copper danced on his tongue and tasted almost real.

The boy trapped in his arms looked about ready to suffer a heart attack. Cipher almost thought it'd be merciful to stab him and get it over with, to put an end to both of their suffering. He looked at Dipper as the thought rolled through his mind, and just as soon as it came it was gone. Now the kid had his eyes closed tightly, unaware of all Cipher's staring. He carefully used the knife to brush Dipper's bangs aside. He hummed in interest, distracted by the glimpse of clean pink skin.

On the pale curve of Dipper's forehead, normally well hidden by his hair, were more of those little freckles. Some were old and faded, others were large and a deep brown. The design perfectly lined up forming a recognizable pattern. Cipher had stared up at the night sky for years, read star maps and knew all the star formations by name in Greek. He was able to tell the time of year by their position, gather his bearings and always find North. Cipher smiled, knowing he was looking at the Big Dipper. _Well_, he thought, that dumb nickname made sense to him now.

Cipher drew the knife away, letting it drop from his hand. He ignored the way it clattered across the desk. Dipper sharply breathed in, startled by the noise, and he tried to turn his face away again. However, Cipher refuse to allow that. His palm smoothed over the boy's round jaw, holding him still. His hand slipped upwards so his fingers could tangled in the curls of Dipper's hair, holding them out of the way. Gently his thumb rubbed over the little freckles, curious to see if he could rub them away as if they were made by pen ink. They didn't budge, permanently remaining on the boy's unevenly sun-kissed skin, standing out in unique glory.

“Bill...” Dipper breathed, voice trembling and afraid.

Bill sighed a light hum in response. He was losing himself in the sensation of warm skin under his fingertips. It had been a while since he touched a body so soft and delicate. He traced the slight curve of Dipper's brow with a calloused touch. Bill leant forward. A stray thought ran through his mind, whether or not the kid's mouth would still taste of brandy and apricot. A wonderfully sinful thought. He could hear Dipper breathing, could feel a shaky exhale ghost over his lips. It tickled and tempted him to feel more. Bill cursed himself and pulled away.

Feeling the weight lift off his body Dipper moved quickly trying to escape but he was still couldn't break free from the pirate's hold. Cipher was still holding onto Dipper's arm with a bone crushing grip. He didn't get far.

“My little Pine Tree thinks he can kill me? What gave you such a ridiculous idea like that? And here I thought, you were going to be smarter than this.” Bill laughed a loud. “It's almost like you want me to take you apart limb by limb.”

“I want you to stay the hell away from me.”

“Fat chance of that.” Bill was not about to let him go. If the kid wanted to act up like this, he'd punish him appropriately. He was sure the kid could live without a finger or two, lob off an ear, wrench out a molar. It would, in theory, do a spectacular job at getting Bill's mind off the physical wants he'd been developing around him. He frowned, curious as what would be enough to break his small Sapling.

Cipher hummed and tugged Dipper along as he stepped to the side. He gathered up the knife that the kid had stolen. It was a good knife, long and thin, curving up at the the tip. He bounced the weapon in his hand, giving it a little twirl in the air. The smooth metal caught the light perfectly for his little display of control.

Still the kid was trying to escape from his grasp. The arm he held pulled and trembled. He looked at Dipper. Those large brown eyes were fixed to the shining knife, betraying just how scared he was deep down. The wide eyed expression did nothing to sway Cipher's decision. He was determined to see the brat ripped apart, traumatized, broken, and driven to the brink of madness.

Cipher moved about the desk, dramatically taking his time. He stretched out his arm to stand behind the table, positioning himself opposite the kid. He roughly yanked on the arm he help and slammed the wrist down against the solid wood. Dipper's body feel forward, bent over the desk, lowering against his will to accommodate Cipher's desires. He was starting to look panicked, large confused eyes raising to silently plead for freedom. It was absolutely adorable to finally see such a face. Cipher pointed the knife at him in a threatening manner.

“I warned you, multiple times, and I don't do that. I've been a gentleman with you in fact. But you've gone and insulted my generosity,” Bill prattled on in a condescending tone. He waved the knife, completely careless about where the sharp blade might swipe or hit.

“Bill, stop. Let me go.” Dipper tried to stay calm. His focus was solely on the knife now, flinching back when it would cross over his arm or come too close to his cheek. “Let me go... Let go!”

“You think _you_ can give _me_ orders? No, no, Pine Tree. That's not how this works. You were raised better than this, I assume. Did no one teach you manners?” Bill ever so lightly pressed the tip of the blade to Dipper's forearm. As long as the kid remained still, it would not harm him. Clearly, that was not an easy task for him. Dipper winced and fought the urge to yank his arm free. Yet he trembled and shook, feeling the tip of the blade prick and pierce his skin.

“Bill... Please! Is that what you want? Please? Stop!” Dipper snapped, beginning to scream.

“It's a start. We will see.” Cipher nodded. “But I don't think _this_ will help you learn your lesson. So, we'll see if you figure out how to beg properly, somewhere between now and this blade cutting through your arm.”

The blade wasn't made for such a task. It would slice through skin, could get through muscle and tissue, but it would be stopped by bone thicker than a finger. The edge wasn't serrated. It wasn't a saw. Still, his intention was the same as if it were. Even if he had to scrape into the bone far enough that he could snap the limb in two, they would get there. He would make the brat scream and beg for his life.

Dipper started to choke on his own breath, sobbing over his words as he rushed to comply. Cipher was pleased to hear it. I would seem, that even a proud Pines had their breaking point. Dipper's was on threat of amputation. Cipher smiled, happy to listen to the kid stammer and whimper.

“Please! Bill, please stop! Don't! Please!”

It was like music to his ears. A chill ran up his back and Cipher chuckled. He shifted the handle in his hand. The tip of the blade poked a small hole in the fabric of the shirt as it was drawn back. He brought the blade up high, ready to stab it through the kid's arm.

Dipper let out a constant string of _no_, _stop_, _please_. Those large brown eyes found his, overflowing with tears that streaked down his cheeks.

“Bill! No! Please! Bill!”

The pirate's hand came down quickly.

Dipper let out a ear splitting scream.

The blade of the knife plunged deep into the wood of the desk, splintering the wood and ruining the polished surface. No, Bill didn't miss. He released his hold on Dipper and the boy went sliding to the floor in a blubbering heap.

Dipper dropped like a stone, gasping as he fell onto his back. Face ghostly white, mouth hanging open, he couldn't breathe. Each little gulp of air came short, rattling his lungs like he'd never used them before. His muscles spasmed, forcing every limb to tighten. In that moment he genuinely believe he was dying. There was a numbness settling into his body outside of the red hot, suffocating tension in his chest. Dipper blinked back thick tears which blurred his sight but the ceiling above him still seemed to spin.

His arms curled in over his chest as he hugged himself. And for a long while, he simply lay there on the rug, listening to a ringing in his ears. The world became so hollow and vacant. His body shook gently as he barely breathed. It was all Dipper was able to manage as his mind drifted off into oblivion.

Nothing felt real anymore. His body objected the function of his own senses. Touch had gone numb, sight blurred and he'd fallen deaf and mute. There was a small rush in the back of his mind, blood pumping too quickly, leaving him dizzy and confused. Was the room turning or his own imagination. It was neither, but Dipper didn't realize there were hands on him, one slipping around his shoulders and one under his knees. He was unable to feel that he was being picked up off the floor.

Minutes passed, long lengths of time that felt like hours to Dipper's slowed mental state. The sound of bells died down and was replaced eventually by the continuous tick of a clock. The ticking became accompanied by the grinding of a gear which was in need of lubricant. The gear groaned from the force of turning, clunking into place every time it changed to the next position. Dipper started to slightly shake in sync with the mechanical jittering in his head. Then the clock struck the hour mark. It chimed, sounding louder than it normally should have in the large room. Dipper jumped, startling himself back to reality by the noise. He swallowed a large gasp of air and blinked a few times.

His eyes felt dry. His throat was too. And every inch of him wanted to collapse. He didn't dare move because of how he still trembled and shook like a leaf.

Dipper turned his head, looking at the clock that woke him. It was large and decorative, reminding him of a fancy German cuckoo clock except there was no little bird to sing on the hour. Dipper stared for a moment, wondering where he had seen the clock before because it was familiar. He blinked before turning his head back toward the room around him. Still, it took him another moment to realize where he was again. How he could have forgotten seemed beyond comprehensible. After what had happened...

Yet, his brain had shut out the world for a brief moment in time, letting Dipper blissfully ignore life as it was. He had safely been tucked away in a quiet recess of his mind. Now he wished he could return to that limbo. At least there Dipper didn't have to be aware of his pain and fear, that he sat in the pirate's cabin, back pressed into the couch. His heart clenched in his chest, desperately not wanting to accept that this was his fate, to be a hostage and plaything to satisfy a lunatic's entertainment.

Strangely, he believed it fitting. His life back at home had been aimless and obedient. Why should his death hold any significance. It wasn't like he had much to live for anyway. Dipper felt himself slide deeper into the couch, defeated and cold.

He slowly turned his head, preparing himself to find the man leering at him from across the room. He expected that wide toothy smile and a laugh that mocked his very existence. However, there was no such sight. Yes, the pirate was there and Dipper was positive he would gladly accommodate him presumption should the man realize Dipper was watching him. It was his believe that Cipher would fall back into his ways, chuckling and teasing Dipper at any second. But there he sat, silently at his desk. No insane laughter, no cat like grin, or even a glare.

Dipper watched him most carefully, waiting to see what he would do now. His expectations were let down by the sight of Bill working away on something in focused silence, head down, hair falling out of place in thick strands of blonde. The sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up his forearms to show off tanned skin that was splotchy with ink. Dipper lifted his head and gave him a full on look, taken aback. A pen was poised in Bill's hand, artfully stroking in long swirls across a large fabric backing.

The deranged maniac seemed no more frightening than any scholar. The hardened lines of the man's face were soft and thoughtful as he worked. The frown was lifted into a curious expression.

Dipper drew his brows together finding it odd behaviour. He knew better than to trust such an act. Bill was not a man one could trust or believe at face value. Under that calm exterior was a ticking bomb ready to detonate. Yet there was something in the way he worked that Dipper found familiar and oddly comforting, deeply homey to the point of disturbing. The way Bill worked, writing with a flourished hand, it reminded Dipper of watching his uncle work. How the two of them would share quiet company for hours. This was like that, in a strange, unsettling way.

It dawned on Dipper that he only knew Bill by what he had read in the journal. But other than that, Dipper knew nothing of him. Surely, Cipher had to be from somewhere. He must have had a home once, or a family perhaps. Though while Dipper was not eager to ask these types of questions, they did find a way to cloud his mind as he sat, staring at such a man. Had Bill always been so evil, or had he been innocent once before. How could anyone be so low and without moral...

All his thinking was causing his head to hurt. Dipper's body hadn't quite caught up to the speed of reality, parts of him were still lost in the illusion of outer space. He couldn't handle too many internal philosophical debates based in good vs. evil, or ethics and morality. He didn't need or want to know why Cipher is what he is. Dipper could not yet feel more than one emotion at a time and no more than one thought. The simpler the better. Dipper purely existed in the silence of the cabin.

Dipper's body sunk into the couch, letting the plush backing pillow around him until his head could lay over the backrest. He kept his head turned, cheek softly pressing into the cushion. He watched Bill work from there, observing each little tick and habit but he could not file away in his mind. _This man_, Dipper decided, was not the One-Eyed Beast, could not be the same cruel Pirate William Cipher. This man, was entirely and wholly _Bill_, nothing more or less.

“What did he ever do to you...” It came out as a whisper, though Dipper wasn't entirely sure he had said anything at all. The silence remained around them and Bill kept working away, head down and ignoring Dipper. Maybe it had been only in his mind that he said anything. Or if he had, that it was too quiet. Dipper gently sighed through his nose and closed his eyes.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” was offered out to him in a despondent and honest tone.

Dipper smirked a little and nodded into the cushion. “You're probably not wrong,” he said...

It was a soft question, one that stilled Bill momentarily and he deliberated whether to answering it or not. Finally, he chose the latter and offered out a truthful response. There was no argument or push for more, which was strange to him. The only thing the kid said in return was an indirect agreement. Bill looked up to see Dipper with his eyes closed, appearing to be asleep or just about.

Bill returned the pen to its pot of ink. He leant forward on his elbows, watching the kid calmly resting on the couch. There was something about the little brat that was almost enduring. Something deep beneath the stubbornness, the irritatingly defiant attitude. Something that went beyond the large doe eyes of chocolate and soft skin. The boy was more than his freckles and fragile wrists. And Bill hated himself, knowing it was true.

There had been so many opportunities to ruin that body with physical harm and leave it bloody, chopped to small pieces, left in a miserable trail for Ford to follow like blood soaked breadcrumbs. He could have torn the boy open and removed his intestines, pulls the flesh from the muscle, broken every bone. He could have bled the boy dry. Yet, Bill did nothing. A cell, some restraint. Threats and intimidation. A little taunting with a knife. This was nothing. Not to a man who tortured and murdered indiscriminately.

However, Dipper was different in his eyes. It was a fact Bill could not get away from, no matter how he tried. It was infuriating. Every time those blasted eyes found his own, his reserve was broken. The desire to see limbs severed and skinned was gone. He wanted to keep the boy next time him always, and to break any man who dared take such a treasure away from him. Bill was dangerously close to fully considering the boy his own property. Though he knew, Dipper would never accept such a thing.

Bill stood, unable to stop himself from getting up and making his way across the floor. With a light touch, he lifted Dipper into his arms. The smaller body didn't object, only roll into his chest in search of warmth and protection. The kid must really be out of it to allow this to happen, he thought to himself. There was no other reason for the behaviours. Bill was quite positive that he was the last person on the planet that Dipper would seek protection from. He knew this, even if he did not like the fact. Still, Bill held him to his chest, carrying him towards the smaller conjoined cabin.

Dipper made a tired whimper, blowing a small breath across Bill's neck. His head fell against his shoulder, rocking slightly as they moved through the cabin. It felt like a sin to put him to bed, so that he couldn't watch the kid sleep from his desk. Bill could almost laugh, thinking that leaving the boy safely in bed could be compared to a sin.

He set Dipper down amongst the blankets. The kid rolled onto his side, settling into a pillow immediately looking for something to cling to.

A small smirk tugged on Bill's mouth, just a gentle turn and nothing more. He reached out his fingers and brushed the hair out of Dipper's face. The curls fell back to show off the delicate birthmark stamped onto the light skin of his forehead.

Bill frowned... Dangerously close to deciding this boy was his.

He retreated from the room, closing the door to separate them. It was going to be a long evening, Bill thought to himself as he gathered what was left to the open brandy on his desk. A long evening, filled with too much alcohol and not enough sleep.

_Fire..._

That was the first thing his senses could register after the crash. Fire and smoke, thick and black. Beyond the crackling of his ears, there were screams of pain and fear. Calls for help could be heard somewhere outside the doors. But this went ignored, his mind temporarily only concerning itself with the threat of the fire and hot metal filling the first class car.

A small stretch let him know his body was in one piece, no limbs broken or trapped. Bill blinked his eyes and squinted in the smoke filled train-car. The rug was not yet completely ablaze but seats were, light fixtures had broken and left glass everywhere. Oil from lamps were spilt and would very soon became abundant fuel for the fire which was growing closer. What was once a luxurious train-car, decorated in brass and velvet, was now nothing but charred scraps and destroyed upholstery.

Bill pulled himself from where he lay across the rug. The car was tilted, not completely fallen from the track. His body remained shoved awkwardly pressed between a row of seats and the wall. Sitting up left him dizzy and ill. Ignoring the surge in his gut, he forced his way up. His body fell against the wall. There was a clear escape to the outside there. He could see the ground just outside the window. Not taking care to shield himself, more desperate to get out of the fire, Bill swung his elbow against the glass of the window. The glass took a hit well, refusing to budge. Bill grunted and threw more weight into the next swing. The glass cracked like a spider web but still remained solid.

Wobbling on pained legs, Bill searched for something heavy, something that would finish the job. Near by a broken coat rack was the answer. The brass was hot to the touch but Bill could barely feel anything passed the pain any longer. Coughing on smoke, he picked up the rack and threw it against the glass. The window shattered.

What glass was left behind in the frame was easily knocked away. And with what little strength he possessed, Bill lifted himself out the window and into the night air. It hit him with an icy punch. Snow picked up in the wind and was thrown about outside. He lowered himself into the thick snow and remained there on his back for a long while, listening to the fire grow bigger, metal screaming in the heat, people dying and burning alive. He had escaped. Bill smiled to himself, a small chuckle bubbling up from inside his chest which grew stronger and quickly overtook him, the little stunned laugh turning into a crazed hysteria.

He coughed, feeling his lungs trying to clear themselves of smoke. The laughter subsided, intercut with periodic coughs and wheezes for fresh air. However the cold Canadian winter wind hurt his lungs just as badly as the intense smoke. Still, his lip twitched with a level of self satisfaction and amusement. Bill ran a hand over his face and was surprised to find that his fingers trembled. He chalked it up to adrenaline and not legitimate shock or fear. Those were feelings he no longer possessed.

A finger slid through a stick substance on his forehead. He pulled his hand away expecting to see oil smeared over his skin. His fingers were coated in the warm red of his own blood. Bill laughed despite himself, not sure what else to do. A little blood was fine. A small injury was to be expected. He may be chard from the fire, battered and bruised, but he was alive.

There was a yell, clear and loud over the crackling fire that grabbed his attention. Bill rolled over, pushing his soot covered blonde hair out of his face. He squinted his eyes trying to see through the smoke that was starting to cloud the outside air heavily. At first, all he could see was the crashed train, cars completely derailed and upturned. And for a moment he thought it was his imagination, that he heard a voice. But after a moment of scanning the wreckage, he saw a figure limping through the smoke and snow. Bill smile wide, seeing the familiar figure approach.

Through the layers of ash and a small smattering of blood, the older pirate was alive. He staggered as he walked, clearly carrying himself on an injured leg. One arm shielding himself from the black clouds around them.

“William? Good, God! William!” he yelled.

“Hiya, Sixer,” Bill said cheerily over seeing his friend make it out alive. He never intentionally wanted to hurt his crew mate and friend but when he tampered with the engine and stabbed the train conductor, knowing full well they were all going to crash, it was inevitable. Bill smiled a toothy grin even though he felt the pains of guilt upon seeing the older man hurt.

If he were truly being honest, killing the vast majority of the crew during a standard robbery was a little excessive. He was only trying to kill the Captain and there were many different ways he could have done so.

Ford scowled, ignoring the pain in his bones in order to face his young friend. Even with the hard lines, deeply set from anger creasing his face, his eyes shone with concern and a familial sense of love. For as long as they had known one another, Ford treated Bill like his own son. It was a warm and painful reminder of the real family the older man left behind years ago.

They knew each other well by this point, so when an _accident_ suddenly lead to the death of over half the crew, Ford knew it had to be Bill's doing. The reckless boy he knew and cared for, one so imaginative and resourceful, smart but outlandish - knowingly killed a train full of men, pirate and civilian alike.

“William-” Ford started but was cut off.

“Bill,” he corrected. “I've told you that before. You just don't listen to me.” Bill tittered with mock parental disapproval. If he were in less pain, he'd probably make a joke of it all and start wagging a finger at the older man. However, it was taking his full strength to keep himself right way up.

“Please, you refuse to call me 'Ford' most days.” Ford's voice remained level, without any jest. None of this was funny to him and the more Bill joked, the angrier he as becoming.

“True.” Bill chuckled and pushed himself back onto his feet. He brushed off his trousers dramatically before turning his attention toward the burning train cars. “Well, this has been fun.”

“You did this! I know it was you!” Ford yelled abruptly.

Bill glanced his way and after a long moment of silence shrugged with indifference, accepting the blame without argue. He wouldn't have objected to such a claim even to legal authorities.

Then Bill watched the middle-aged man grip his side under his frayed jacket. Assuming the man was hurt worse off than he originally looked, Bill moved forward. He genuinely cared for the engineer, as crew-mate and family. Ford had always been far too forgiving to be a pirate, not one to fight unless provoked and was too gentlemanly. Bill felt it his own responsibility to look after him.

With a concerned hand he reached out for Ford. However, before he could even touch the blackened coat fabric, there was suddenly a hand in his face. Bill stepped back, eyeing the sharp short knife which Ford held tightly. The flat, smooth metal glinted in the fire light, shining as the man's hand shook while holding it. Bill withdrew, backing away slowly so he could hold both up, showing no ill will toward his friend. Still, the knife remained where it was, dangerously close and pointed at his face.

While Bill didn't believe Ford would ever kill a man, there was always a first time for everything. He himself, did not want to be the first. Bill cleared his throat, trying not to choke on the smoke that was still entering his lungs with every breath. It clouded around them in a thick blanket of blackness.

“Hey now, old man. We're all friends here. I got nothing against you,” he said.

“You used me!” Ford snapped back. “You tricked me and sent me away. And for this? This was your plan? What were you thinking?”

“You make it sound like I killed a train full of clergymen,” Bill commented, not that he had a real defence. Even if one of the train cars were full of nuns, he wouldn't have changed his mind. He wasn't ashamed to admit it either.

His eyes still trailed the knife pointed at his face. It dipped and wavered due to Ford's uneasy breathing and physical limitations. Honestly, Bill would have felt more comfortable around a steady knife. This waving blade was inches away from slitting his throat by accident.

“What'cha going to do with that there, Sixer?” Bill quickly looked between the man and the knife. He held his ground, hands still raised. He didn't want to give Ford a reason to advance on him.

“I think you know.” The older man's voice showed signs of premeditated regret. This was a shock.

Bill felt his smile fall. Hands dropping to his sides, his head tilted. “Fordsie, let it go. What's done is done,” he said calmly like none of this was a big deal.

“No, you used me and got everyone killed!”

“You're alive. That's hardly everyone.”

“How can you stand there, like this, and act like _all of this_ is nothing but an inconvenience? You are a bloody psychopath!”

Bill waved a hand, dismissing him. “I didn't intend to kill you exactly. It all just, happened,” he said flippantly.

Ford did not intend to back down.

“If you're going to use that, I suggest you do it already,” Bill pressed. He grabbed the wide collar of his shirt, tugging it down to expose the skin of his neck and collarbone. “Don't be a coward. Come on!”

“I don't want to hurt you, William.”

“Yet there's a knife in my face.” Bill reaching out and touching the tip of the knife. He could feel how sharp it was when he pressed his fingertip against it. Ford only frowned harder.

“I'm going to take you in, William. You're going to face justice for this.” Ford's voice broke in a pathetic, sympathetic croak.

Bill removed his finger, no longer amused by the old man's bluff. “You wanna run that by me again, Ford? I always knew you were too noble for your own good...”

“I don't want to force you but I will if needed.”

“You soft spined, bleeding heart...” Bill eyes narrowed, anger rising. His fingers twitched. There was a gun tucked into the band of his trousers. He could feel it pressed against his lower back. It was loaded too. The knowledge of it weighted against him, the lightweight pistol feeling heavy on his skin. He stared Ford down as he internally debating shooting his friend to save his own neck from a noose. The very thought crushed his heart into a fine powder.

Bill set his jaw. “I'd hate to kill ya, Fordsie, honest.” And as honest as it was, the words were spat out bitterly between clenched teeth.

“Don't make me do this, William...” Ford said sadly.

“I'd like to see you try.” Bill dragged the toe of his boot back, preparing to put some distance between them. Close combat fighting was much easier with a knife than a gun. His hand slipped under the back of his long shirt, fingers encircling the gun handle.

For an old man, he could move when necessary. The space between them was filled with a knife swing. The motion was poorly directed, clearly showing Ford's inexperience as well as his hesitation. Fabric split and skin went with it. It clipped Bill's arm, nothing vital but enough to draw blood. Red swelled in the shallow cut, soaking into his sleeve. Bill ignored the slow burn of his skin. It was nothing to him.

He responded to the attack by bringing the handle of the pistol down against Ford's should. The older man's side collapsed under the hit, backing off from some sense of self preservation that Bill did not possess.

Bill cocked the gun, ready to fire once he gained some distance. He dodged when Ford came back with a closed fist swung for his head.

The two men were determined to beat the other down. Bill was at the advantage with his youth and stamina, but Ford was stubbornly determined and didn't know when to quit. There was a sickening crack when Bill's fist came down on Ford's nose. Blood was left on his knuckles, but not as much as what dripped over Ford's lip and chin. He shook out his fingers, sending bright red drops to the ash dusted snow.

Struggling to keep up and in pain, Ford used his own body weight to grab and drag Bill to the ground. His boot came down hard on the pirate's knee. Ford felt something click under the impact, a fracture to the join or a popped knee cap. Either way it kept Bill down. Ford rolled off him, coughing on the ever growing smoke.

The fire around them still blazed out of control, catching on the cold wind to setting light to nearby trees and uncovered underbrush. It was growing bigger, threatening to box them in and burn them alive if the smoke didn't choke them to death first. Ford kicked Bill's gun just out of reach while the young man convulsed in pain. Ford could see the rage burning in Bill's eyes.

They both felt equally betrayed.

Bill rolled himself up. Determined not to lose to this man. He staggered as he tried to find his balance and strength. On his good leg, he lunged forward.

Reflexively, Ford swung the knife. It swung in an upward arc through the air in a defensive manner, to establish a shield distance, nothing more. However, the erratic swing struck an unwanted target. Bill fell, head whipping back. The roaring fire did nothing to drown out the pained howl that filled the air, one Ford knew he would hear in his sleep for the rest of his life. Stunned from what he had done, Ford stood stalk still, watching Bill fall to the ground.

“Ford! I'll kill you! I'll kill your whole family!”

Bill rolled to his side. One hand was firmly planted with the heal of his palm on his eye. Bright, thick streams of blood pooled around him hand, leaking and running down his cheek, dipped under his jaw line.

Ford moved to grab the discarded pistol out of panic.

Bill clenched his jaw to stifle his grunts. His nostrils flared as he breathed in large gasps of smoke heavy air. His vision was blurred, black spots flickering in and out of view. The edge of his peripheral dimming with blackness. Bill could see the ground, his own sprawled legs, Fords boots, but beyond that, blackness. Adrenaline flooded his head, on the edge of unconscious, he felt as though he could throw up.

Bill lowered his hand and tried to focus on the slick redness of his palm, but everything was hazy and off centred. He had to tilt his head and adjust the position of his arm to look at it properly. He rapidly blinked but still couldn't see. The muscles clenched around his eye and pushed out more and more blood from the wound. Still, no sight returned.

Ford's hands shook; knife in one, gun in the other. Never in his life had he harmed someone he cared for as he just done. A good friend, a son. Panic and guilt swept over him and even in the heat of the fire he felt his body become coated in a chilling sweat. The boy he felt so close to was looking up at him with a newfound murderous glare, pathetically trying to blinking back the blood the gushed from one side of his face.

The cut from his knife sliced skin parting upper cheek bone to brow in one smooth deep line. The eye lid moved from muscle memory, fluttering and pushing apart with each twitch. Otherwise, it hung uselessly over the blood filled socket. Underneath the folding skin was nothing but a thick red puddle and the remaining tissue of a severed eyeball, held in only by thinly attached nerves.

“I'll Kill You!” Bill roared. He pressed his palm back over his eye to try and stem the bleeding. He struggled to pull his legs under himself to stand. One refused to bend and the other was too tired to hold his weight. Bill pathetically fell to his side. Through the pain and unwillingness of his his limbs, he at least pushed himself up to one elbow. Back hunched and breathing hard, Bill groaned.

“Stay down, William. Please...” Ford raised the gun in a trembling hand, aim so far off from Bill it would never hit. “Don't make me do this to you... Please.”

Bill laughed behind his clenched teeth. “Shoot me!” he yelled with blind hatred. “Do it! Come on, Ford! Shoot me!”

Ford's finger pulsed on the trigger.

Bill's head shot up from its resting place atop his desk. His forehead hurt with a dull ache from being pressed against wood for too long. He groaned tiredly and rubbed the tender patch of skin. Blinking, Bill pushed himself back so he could slump down into his chair. He woke up with a hand tightly grasping a knife, which could have ended badly given the circumstance. The knife was eyed cautiously. Bill did not remember grabbing it. It was tossed aside. The metal loudly clattered against the wood table and skidded across the top, only to fall off the other side.

The content of his desk had been scattered during his restless sleep as well, papers and random stray items ending up on the floor. And ink pot was overturned and now there was a large black puddle stained into a rug. However, Bill could not bring himself to care.

The residual memories, his dream, left his heart beating fast. Blood swelling in his ears leaving him hot and sweating. The quiet room seemed deafening with every small movement and shuffle. Bill let out a shaking breath and gulped back as much air as possible. He ran a hand over his face, wiping away sweat. It had been a while since his brain wanted to bring up such old memories and haunt his sleep. The booze had a hand in it tonight...

With a tremble hand Bill reached out for one of the liquor bottles on his desk. The bottle, however, was drained. He set it back down, disappointed and annoyed.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed roughly and pushed his fingers through tussled blonde hair. Agitated and unable to sit still Bill stood up with such a force that it shoved the chair back a solid foot. Tension was building in his body too quickly to handle. He growled low like an animal trying to keep his rage from getting the better of him.

Blindly he turned towards his room. He desperately wanted to return to a peaceful sleep but he stopped just as he reached for the handle. It had completely slipped his mind that the kid was in his bed, no doubt a sleep by this time. Bill paused, uncomfortable about the idea of crawling into that bed as he was now. It wasn't uncommon for him to harm a bed-partner while sleeping, suffering through nightmares with violent reflex. Bill also did not want to take out his violent temper on the little Sapling while knowingly awake, not this anger anyway. But surely strangling the boy would ease the tension from his hands...

He turned himself away from the door in favour of pacing the room. Everything boiling inside him left Bill with the urge to throw whatever he touched, kick over the end-tables, break the bookshelves, destroy and ruin everything he could. Nostrils flared as he seethed. Grabbing a book off the floor he hurled it across the room, still not satisfied by the way it smacked against the opposite wall.

He moved to the window and threw back the heavy curtains to look outside. It was still late and the stars were out, shining bright against the ink black sky. The dimmed cabin lights did not obscure his view out of the window too much. Thankfully it was a clear night, dark with residual blue tones. The stars mapped out their path along the coast showing the way. Bill sighed, finding himself thinking of Dipper without even trying.

The little window didn't offer too much of a view. He could not find Ursa Major or any of the polar stars. Though the clear autumn sky gave him a partial view of Andromeda. Bill scoffed, not pleased with himself. There was no reason to be looking for the Big Dipper at a time like this. Why even bother looking for it in the sky when he could now trace the lines of the very constellation any time he desired. All he would have to do was pull his Pine Tree close and brush back those dark curls away from that disobedient little face.

“Fucking hell,” he said again with a far calmer breath and a self-deprecating tone. Bill rubbed the back of his stiff neck.

His eye unfocused, flickering to look at the glass window. The lamps behind him was dim and didn't cast so much of a reflective glow until Bill moved back a step. It then made for an ugly mirror bathed in a sickly yellow tint. Bill could see himself almost clearly but the colour was muddled with warmth and fine details were lost to a blur. His hair was out of place and he looked worn out from being lost in thought for too long, for falling asleep at his desk, piled together with him relentlessly drinking late into the night. His shirt was rumpled and partially unbuttoned around the collar. Shoulder tense and hunched up to his ears.

The light kindly hid some of the old scar on his face, smoothing out the skin and making him look almost normal, a little younger and kinder. It was a cruel trick of the light, mocking and full of false promises. The sight of his almost human face was unsettling. He had never been particularly _normal_. For far too long he had disassociated himself with anything resembling such things, considering himself more a legend, an all powerful being that couldn't die. However, the face staring back at him was nothing more than a beaten down man, facing his inevitable mortality alone. It was pitiful.

With a hesitant hand he pulled the eye-patch loose from around his face.

Bill looked at himself in the window, not daring to get too close to his own reflection. The skin under the eye-patch was slick with sweat and blotched with red. His brow was scarred with a slight divot from quick stitching. Similar grooves were forever on his cheek. It was a lovely little reminder that went perfectly with the fifteen years of phantom pain that lingered around his eye. Permanently marred skin that distorted half his face.

The forever closed and useless eyelid was puffy with scare tissue and wrinkled where it caved in on itself. It was nothing more than excess skin that hung pointlessly over an empty cavern that once held a vibrant ember eye.

Bill snarled and retied the eye-patch to cover the old injury. The next time he saw Ford, he was going to repay the favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who are you most sympathetic toward Dipper or Bill???


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight mature bits in this chapter.

_Drip..._

_Drip..._

_Drip..._

How long had he been asleep... It felt like hours, days, had passed and he hadn't moved. The bed cushioned his body like a warm embrace, urging him to remain, to stay curled within the sheets and never leave. Dipper groaned aloud, tightening his eyes, willing them closed for just a little longer. However, he doubted they would stay open. There was a grogginess weighing on his mind which left him weak and dazed. Overtired, exhausted to the bone, Dipper wanted nothing more than a restful sleep, but it felt like he had been plagued with reoccurring nightmares, horrible visions of pain and torture that tightened his muscles and he could not relax.

His limbs lay heavy against the mattress, sprawled out in contorted heaps. They had long since gone numb and Dipper could only assume their position at his sides. Even as he wiggled his toes within the covers, he could not feel them completely. Blood flow seemed to have come to a stop, pooling somewhere in his veins. The arms at his sides felt like they were not his own, as if a stranger had crawled into bed with him and lay a hand across his side.

He couldn't understand why he was so tired. Sick, he thought, maybe. Dipper turned his cheek into the pillow below his head. The soft fabric lightly caressed his skin in a soft touch. It was a warm comfort in comparison to how he felt. There was a dampness to the fabric as if he had been sweating, though he did not currently feel too hot. Maybe he had a fever. In which case, perhaps Ford would allow him the day off to overcome whatever illness had found him.

Dipper sighed heavily into the strangely plush pillow, finding it more luxurious than he had ever before. The cheap cotton felt silken and perfect against his skin. He wanted to bury his face back into the pillow and let his body give into the fatigue it felt. His arms felt heavy and Dipper couldn't even find the energy to pick up his head. Even the simple act of breathing felt like a difficult to grasp concept. Air barely felt like a necessity to him and each breath came in small intakes, slow and far in between, feeling too much like donkey-work.

Dipper dreaded getting up in such a state. If he even made it out of bed, he feared he'd pass out within moments. There wasn't even a chance in hell he'd make it to the library. The very idea was draining.

_Drip..._

He whined, face contorting to one of annoyance. Was there a leak somewhere in the apartment... Dipper tried to shuffled deeper under the blankets, seeking warmth and comfort. But the dripping continued, echoing with a deep rattle like it was coming from the pipping of the building. It was continuous and irritating, pressing on his nerves with every drop.

Dipper whined low in his throat, hating his cheap, drafty apartment. He cursed it and its many flaws. Its windows which let in the cold winter wind, how those same windows held in the summer time humidity and made the small space stifling and damp with heat. Now it was how the peaceful silence was broken by his own movement and the creaks and buckling of old wood and metal. If only he had the money available to move, to find somewhere he truly felt at home.

Because, despite how he tried to convince himself otherwise, this was not his home... Even in his precious library.

Dipper slipped a hand out under the blankets. His numb joints popped and ached as each finger flexed and gripped loosely around the sheets. Where his hand lay the mattress was cold, vacant of a body Dipper wished would manifest. Someone to warm his side as he slept, to run their finger through his hair soothing his nerves. He always wished for someone, something. But no one would ever be there for him in ways he needed, no one had ever fit or felt right to him. He imagined no one could ever hold him tight enough, ground him, and make him feel as wanted as he desired. The women he knew were all too delicate, or too arrogant. Granted, his experience with women was little, leaving him with only friends to gauge imagined romances. Still, it was never what he wanted.

Dipper huffed out a tired breath, disappointed that his fingers found no body to touch. Why was he searching for someone that wasn't there... Someone tall and imposing, with a strong hand but who knew restraint. Possessive, yet protective and attentive. Dipper smirked, loosing himself in a day dream of his fantasy. He didn't need someone who could buy his affection, though to have someone look after him had a certain appeal. Dipper may not need it, but he could not see an argument against being a kept boy. It was a dirty thought. A truly terrible and sinful one. He should be ashamed. Except, he wasn't, not at all.

It was merely a harmless fantasy. Dipper never lied to himself, such a thing would never happen. He knew this well. No one would ever treat him like that, or ever look at him as if Dipper could hang the moon from a string and offer the stars. He was only a medical student and glorified librarian. Neither of which he was overly good at per say. What could he ever offer someone... In the end, it would be some girl, pick by his parents and who he was forced to court. There would be no love, no passion – not with Dipper at the helm.

_Drip..._

Dipper sighed as he tried to roll over onto his stomach. Instead of a leak, he pretended it was raining and that irritating drip was just the droplets against the windowpane. A lazy arm fell off his side awkwardly. He didn't care. He didn't remember his bed ever feeling so cushioned and thick. Maybe it was how he lay upon it, but the springs weren't digging into him tonight. He thanked his lucky star and tried not to question it, less he find that sharp spring and get jabbed in the ribs. He much prefer returning to his daydream of his fantasy man and avoid all thoughts of real life.

Yes, Dipper decided his fantasy revolved around a man. The strong arms wrapping around him could only belong to a man, long and corded with toned working muscle from hard physical labour. They would possess calloused palms and rough fingers that he would be able to feel through is shirt when touched. Dipper decided offhandedly that they would be tanned as well, contrasting against his own pale complexion. It was, after all, his fantasy. He could be held by anyone he choose.

He forced his eyes to remain closed, despite knowing he was now fully awake. His lashes threatened to flutter and open. What glimpses of his room he caught were pitch black. It was still nighttime, he told himself. He was allowed this, in the dark when he was alone. Limbs cramped as he pulled them close. His fingers circled around the thickest blankets he'd ever felt, bringing them along as he tried to curl in on himself.

Dipper buried his nose into the sheets held clutched tightly in his hands. The soft fabric gently brushed at his skin. They were warmed by his body heat, and smelling like heaven. He breathed slow, enjoying how the spicy hint of leather left his chest humming. His sad little heart fluttered to live like it was shocked with electricity, a bright shock to his nerves that made him buzz and vibrate. His soul lit up like a carbon-filament light bulb. How had he never known such a smell existed, one that promised such a devote comfort and protection from all his worries. Dipper felt himself smile over the simple joy. Perhaps it was just his imagination conjuring up the smell, that his dream-lover smelled of polished leather and spied cologne.

For a long time Dipper lay that way, listening to a the steady drip. His legs managed to curl toward his body. His knees hurt to bend and there was a dull pain in his hipbone like it'd been bruised, although he had no memory of doing anything to it. It wasn't a bother though, and besides, Dipper did not want to move or get up just yet. With a tired whine in protest his legs wriggled around, stretching and wrapping with the blankets, as one does when reluctant to get out of bed in the morning. The material bunched up around his body and became wedged high between his thighs. Dipper sighed feeling almost happy this way, encircled, safely cocooned and secured down. It was pleasant.

Dipper rolled his body over the blankets, liking the way they rubbed up against his chest and stomach. The fabric of his shirt was thin and he could feel the warmth through the extra layer. His shirt road up as he wiggled against the mattress letting his skin rub directly against the silky sheets. He could easily compare himself to a happy cat, kneading at the blankets, tugging them to form a sort of nest. Dipper kept his nose buried in them, finding an overpowering concentration of cologne in the blankets. It was like there had been a spill once, old and faint, long since washed and dried but still noticeable deep within the threading. It was all things musky and spiced, manly in ways Dipper found dangerously attractive. He breathed in the smell, moaning lightly around the blanket. God, he swore it was the best smell in the world and would from now on be his favourite.

Dipper's hips rolled, trying to shift the balled up blankets even closer. The friction between his thighs gave for a slow, teasing touch like a ghosting touch of a hand between his legs. He didn't think twice of rubbing against them obscenely, seeking out that touch, wanting the gentle physical attention. Each time he moved the feeling came to him, slow and soft, barely there. The light press of the sheets provided only a gentle caress, no more than a whispering allure that tugged at his dormant desires. It brought a light blush to his cheeks, not from embarrassment but in want and selfish greed for his own pleasure.

So rarely Dipper sought out his own touch. That's not to say it was an uncommon occurrence. However, it was traditionally far more discreet than this blatant writhing like an animal. It was meticulous and sterile. Night spent laying in the dark, pathetically pawing at himself under the covers, trying to be as silent as possible so not to be heard when he panted, out of breath and aroused. Laying stock still, so his bed did not squeak or bounce, so the springs didn't move and the frame didn't rattle. God forbid anyone heard him, the neighbours, his family when he had been younger. Such a thing would be mortifying.

He'd grown up with the idea drilled into his head that such behaviour was completely unacceptable. It wasn't something a gentleman should ever admit to. It was never talked about and if it was, it was always with negative and judgmental connotation. It was down right sinful. But the pleasure, Dipper couldn't feel ashamed over how it made him feel.

Dipper moaned aloud and he bit his lip on reflex, trying to stifle the sound just a little bit. It was hard to stay quiet however. Everything felt so overwhelming. He couldn't regain control over him actions, too far gone and uncaring. Whatever had gotten into him was a mystery, like magic, consuming him, overpowering and drowning him. His hips rolling on their own, pressing and rubbing against the sheets shamelessly, roughly trying to find a pleasing rhythm and speed. Dipper released his lip in favour of biting at the blankets. With every short, quickened breath, he was granted another lung full of that strong and intoxicating scent of cologne which was so familiar to him. Like a memory he couldn't place, somewhere lost in his mind.

Under his breath, Dipper gasped out needy for air. His voice shook, whispering out a low curse and praise. In the quiet bedroom, he found his shallow breathing to be deafening. Each little sound was like a scream to his own ears and he needed to remind himself that he maybe alone in his room but someone might overhear. Paranoia, nagging at him every time he moaned, high pitched and whining through clenched teeth. Someone was going to hear him pleasure himself. His face flushed with heat thinking about it, feeling on display somehow for someone's sick, perverted enjoyment. Dipper grunted louder, liking how the idea sent a shiver down his spine. If anyone was to hear, he wished it was his fantasy lover.

Dipper could feel his body heating up now, leaving him stifled and stale fully dressed and wrapped up. However he refrained from stripping bare. Even though no one would see him, it wasn't something he did. So Dipper endured the heat of his body, the sweat forming on his back, dampening his shirt collar.

His imagined lover would have done the job, to rip and tear away his shirt and pants. The man would be a solid, unmovable mass, pressed to his back as he did so. In an intimidating, commanding way, the man would throw him around like a rag doll. Those powerful hands would grip him like he was a breakable object, pressing on him with full intent to break him. And Dipper wanted that, he wanted to be held down and broken, left bruised and sweating from a tryst with an aggressively passionate lover.

Dipper whimpered in mild frustration. The blankets weren't providing enough friction for him anymore. It was too gentle, too light. There wasn't enough of what he needed. This had never been an issue for him before. A light touch was all he ever needed, the slow pace he'd always forced upon himself was sufficient. A few minutes of awkward shuffling was all he ever needed or ever granted himself. His body was almost trained to feel satisfied with nothing more than a short minutes of clean, controlled fondling.

This though was nothing in comparison. Restless and desperate, Dipper couldn't get enough, didn't ever want it to stop. Whatever unholy, demonic force that had sunk its claws into him, he relished in it and begged for more.

He gave into his cravings. With the blankets held to his mouth, teeth gnashing on the fine fabric violently, Dipper pulled his knees up under him. It gave for an awkward position, face craned and pressed deep into the pillow, back achingly bent. His dominant hand slipped down between his thighs, groping and pressing at his trousers. Nails scrapped over the pant leg, wanting to find the skin underneath. It didn't even cross Dipper's mind that he was clawing at dress trousers and not his usual long underwear which he wore to bed.

That last barrier between skin on skin contact was breached, Dipper's fingers finding their way down the front waistband.

The whole time, Dipper found himself mentally distracted by thoughts of that wonderfully dominant lover. Vivid images of the man busting through the door, not being shocked in the least to discover Dipper like this, instead finding it equally desirable to see him lewdly sprawled out invitingly. He wanted it. Sickeningly, Dipper wanted it. His tall, tanned lover, caging him between strong arms. It made him feel small to imagine being trapped by such an impressively framed man, it made Dipper feel fragile and just a little scared.

His lover was not brutal however. While he could break Dipper, snap him in half and crumble his bones, he wouldn't harm a hair on his head. Knowing this made Dipper blissfully submissive, allowing his mind to surrender control to someone else. Glorious control over his body. Dipper wanted that dominance, pinning him to the floor, against a wall, right where he lay now. He wanted those hands to hold him still, seemingly against his will.

Dipper closed his eyes and could see a single, intensely heated eye staring him down and rendering him breathless just from a look. The melted ember gold eye made his knees weak and shake. The skin of his cheeks turn pink. He could see sharpened teeth, with lips pealed back in a mocking smile. A little push, a pull, and Dipper was trembling, happy to obey a guiding hand.

He groaned louder, wondering what it would feel like to have those teeth bite at his skin. Would it hurt or feel horribly perfect. What would it be like to trace them with his own tongue before kissing that smile. Dipper bit around the blankets hard, stuffing fabric passed his lips. It felt oddly good to get his own teeth sunken into something thick. Though it felt even better just to have something in his mouth, weighing on his tongue and stretching his jaw with a prodding force.

Dipper bowed his back, wishing there was something pressed against it, something hot and firm. His nerves were on fire, leaving his skin tingling with a light coating of sweat. Each little brush of fabric drove him wild, overly sensitive and erratic from friction.

Dipper pressed himself harder into the mattress, knowing he was close to tipping over the edge, that he was going to go crazy if this feeling continued much longer. But still his body felt oddly empty and he desperately needed something more. Still, it all had to end. Everything was building inside him, too much stimulation, from the touch of his hand to the way his neck ached being crunched to one side, the way his thighs were quivering and wanted to give out.

He needed more still.

His free hand jerked back to find the skin loosely covered by his collared shirt. It quickly disappeared under the collar. Nails sunk down into the base of his neck. They dug deep and clawed, sharply biting at the delicate skin. It sent a spark up Dipper's spine, finding overwhelming pleasure in the pain it caused him.

His whole body snapped like an elastic band. The tightness winding to a breaking point before suddenly loosening with such a force Dipper collapsed forward over his knees. His joins now felt no sturdier than putty. Out of breath, sweating, and unseemly drooling, Dipper gasped for air. He had been holding his breath, although he didn't notice when that happened. The rush of air to his lungs left him a little light-headed but it was not unpleasant. A small smile crossed his lips, gently tugging on the corners with a genuine display of emotion. Every inch of him felt indescribable.

It took long extended minutes for him to regain some semblance of control, to control his breath and calm himself. Dipper moved slowly, stretching back to to a laying position on his stomach. His legs wobbled, a knee cracking as the leg straightened out. The sweat was beginning to dry against his skin now, Dipper could feel it as it cooled his back.

Finally, he blinked his eyes open. Blurry at first, the room in front of his face looking only like dark melting shapes and shadows. Face half turned into the pillow, Dipper squinted and blinked again to try and adjust to the darkness of the room. He couldn't see much, which was odd because his thin curtains didn't do much to block out the street lamps or the moon on a clear night. It was so dark. With a rough lumbering turn, Dipper made the attempt to roll onto his back. He stretched and took a long, deep breath. He let it out as a content sigh.

Dipper blinked up at the ceiling, blank and confused for a moment. He didn't see white painted walls or his usual ceiling. Instead, he saw fabric, a canopy of texture that mixed together in the shadows. Dipper moved slowly as to rub the sleep from his eyes.

_Smack!!!_

Dipper jumped, startled out of his daze. What was meant to be a lazy rub with his fingers turned to an awkward slap across the face. His knuckles coming across a sore spot on his cheek bone harder than expected. Dipper shot up where he sat on the bed.

“God... blasted...” Dipper groaned and placed his palm across the spot on his cheek. There was a heat that radiated outward, reminding him of a previous injury. His touch was gingerly, held to the skin with the smooth of his palm. It hadn't hurt so much as shocked him, startled him out of sleep. His heart was hammering in his chest from the sudden and unexpected jolt to his system. Dipper panted lightly, seeking air to calm his nerves. Once more he cursed, no louder than a whisper.

In a frantic haste, Dipper looked around him. He recognized the odd furniture and finishings hiding in the shadow. As he blinked, eyes fluttering in disbelieve for a moment, Dipper could make out more definition to certain objects in the darkness. The silhouettes of the cabin's many belongings, from the thick bedposts to the stacks of trunks, the wardrobe against the wall. This was not his small apartment back in Gravity Falls. This was not his safe little home.

For a split second in time, Dipper wasn't quite certain if he was relieved or disheartened. His hands fell into his lap to clench around the blankets bundled there.

His memory came to him in stages, filtering in by passed events which brought him to this point. None of it he cared to think of with particular fondness. Until his mind traced back to last night, to when Bill had him bent over the desk in his cabin, the hard wood digging into his spine and the pirate looming over him intimidatingly. The look he held on his face had been unreadable, a mixture of anger and amusement, with a glint to his one eye that Dipper didn't quite understand. That eye that made Dipper's breath catch in his throat and choke him, that made him weak and tremble where he stood. It made him feel...strange. Scared but also excited.

Dipper balled his hands into fists and relaxed them, repeatedly flexing his fingers. His heart sunk in his chest and felt like a ball of lead. Bill had taken his knife back and turned it on him. There was no doubt in Dipper's mind that Bill had every intent on hurting him last night, there was every opportunity and the pirate was fully motivated to do so. He had planned on cutting him, physically, permanently harm him with either a slice or stab. Perhaps Dipper had been within seconds of losing a finger, or his whole hand. He sucked in a breath through his nose and whimpered on the exhale. He had felt genuine terror under Bill's hand.

The pirate's unpredictability and bouts of violence was always something Dipper feared. He had seen first hand of how nonchalantly Bill treated murder and blood. He had watched the man shoot his uncles with no more than a shrug in response. So when it came to Dipper's own safety, he knew Bill could have taken that knife and done so many unholy things to his body, to leave him bloody and broken, skinned alive or left on the floor to bleed to death. But what had stopped him... what had made Bill drop the knife and leave Dipper with nothing more than a sore wrist and a nightmare induced sleep.

Dipper released the blankets. His hand came to grab at his arm. Fingers curled around the thin wrist and squeezed tightly. It hurt him to press on the sore bruised skin and irritate the scabbing of his cuts, but the pain he felt helped to confirm to himself that he was in one piece. He needed that pain, some small noticeable reminder that he was alive and as well as he was. A depraved part of him was thankful for the sharp sting of his cuts, the pull on his scabbing which wanted to tear at the fresh skin beneath. Dipper let go of his arm and sighed over the rush of adrenaline, the burning of his forearm and the pinprick like stabbing along his skin. It was oddly comforting.

He still possessed all his limbs, all ten fingers, both eyes. He was intact, Dipper told himself assuredly.

There was still a tremble to his hands, shaking uncontrollably in his lap. The tremors move to his arms and shoulder. He had to grab at the mattress to keep himself upright. His lungs squeezed out air with effort. Dipper wheezed and coughed with force. There was a sweat starting to break out on his skin that felt cold. When had he become so hot...

Dipper looked toward the cabin door. It was still shut. Nothing was disturbed apart from himself waking up in a bed he did not remember coming to the previous night. Bill was not there with him and Dipper told himself, although he did not believe it, that he was safe in the pirate's absence. He couldn't be hurt if the man was gone, as long as Dipper stayed securely hidden and out of the way. However, even as he told himself this, it felt like a laughable joke at his own expense. Bill had done something to him, something completely unimaginable, not physical but still a form of harm.

There was something wrong with his mind. Dipper could tell how mentally broken he was becoming the longer he remained captive. He felt things he shouldn't on board the airship. At first it was reasonable fear and confusion. Now, there was a familiar comfort within the small sleeping cabin, a warmth to the plush bed and its thick blankets that calmed him emotionally. Dipper was disgusted, deeply horrified with himself.

Mouth falling open, Dipper gasped for air that would not fill his need. He shook and weakly tried to remain sitting but it proving to be a loosing battle.

“Bill...” his voice broke the silence in a cautious whisper. His lips formed each letter in slow tentative movements. The name came out as a plea, needy and desperate. Dipper swallowed a lump forming in his throat. It sunk like a stone.

That man.... That man, Dipper had – _shame_ wasn't a strong enough word for how he felt.

Those thoughts of calloused hands on his body. How wonderful it felt imagining being held down. It had been Bill who Dipper fantasized over. The labour toned arms, the tanned skin, and the smell of cologne which still could be smelt around him like an airy cloud. It was sickening, depraved and perverted. Dipper was horrified with his own actions and subconscious desired. To even think that he was sexually attracted to Bill was insanity. The man was a lunatic, a murderous psychopathy.

Still, the way it made Dipper feel, the lingering trill of pleasure. The wobble in his knees. The flushed heat that had broken out over his skin. It was all because of Bill and some invisible force that drew Dipper toward him. It was like Dipper was nothing more than a puppet, and Bill, the manipulative puppet master.

Dipper felt his stomach lurch against his will. God, he was a sick man. That spiced scent of leather was starting to feel like poison to his system. His body was too hot. The sweat forming on his skin began to dampen his collar. With clumsy fingers Dipper clawed at the buttons along the shirt. He couldn't breathe.

In a flurry of limbs and panic, Dipper kicked at the blankets to get them away. He couldn't handle it, anything touching him, the covers, his clothes, his own skin. He wished he could claw and scrape off each layer until he no longer felt suffocated by the weight of life. Now, as his nails scratched at his neck, it felt in no way comparable to his fantasy. They burned him and hurt when he caught and scraped skin, leaving thin red trailing marks behind.

Something inside his gut twisted again violently. Dipper practically threw himself sideways off the bed, legs clambering over each other to find footing. The blankets were taken with him, balling around his ankles and tripping him as he scrambled to stand. He almost fell, once, twice. Dipper could feel the warm, thick taste of bile in the back of his throat. How it slithered and tickled at his tongue. It made him gag and fold in half at the waist.

His legs threatened to give out entirely, in no way finding the strength to carry him. Dipper stumbled forward, foot catching on the pile of blankets on the floor. He fell to one side. In the dark his hand shot out to catch himself. The solid wood of Bill's armoire was there to stop him from going down. The doors banged loudly as he hit them. Though Dipper didn't care what kind of noise he made. He was heavily preoccupied.

Molten gold, a stare ablaze with anger. Every time Dipper closed his eyes he could see Bill watching him with a hardened expression. Then that toothy grin, shining at him with sickly sweet condescension.

Dipper clenched his eye closed tightly. He swallowed around a thick mouthful of air. He felt out in the dark, guided by the feeling of the wood beneath one hand.

With nothing short of luck, he fell over the wash basin in time for his body to shake and cough. He held himself over the sink as his stomach retched up mostly acid. It didn't even matter when his bangs fell into his eyes, or how the sweat rolled over his forehead in streams. All Dipper could spear a thought to was how his body shook, convulsed over each heave and cough.

Whatever his stomach could empty came up. The liquid-like remains of his last meal met the basin's smooth build.

Dipper could tell he was crying. It couldn't all be sweat that stung his eyes. He sniffed and cough once more, praying that would be all. A trembling hand turned the tap to run a little water, to wash away what he'd done. They spray was cold, misting over his face as he leaned in close. It felt nice actually, tickling his hot cheeks and swollen lips. Dipper cupped a palm under the running water and rinse his mouth. It helped ease the bitter taste coating his tongue and teeth.

The chill of the water was calming. Dipper's panting lessened some. He couldn't tell in the dark if the contents of the sink had washed away or not, but he turned the tap again with a soft squeak. The piped rattled in the wall over head.

_Drip..._

_Drip..._

There was that blasted dripping again. Dipper's eyes sudden felt heavy and unfocused even in the blackness of the room. He stumbled backwards a step. The blood was rushing in and out of his head. His senses swam. On unsteady feet, Dipper tripped and knocked over a nearby box which had been stacked somewhat neatly. The box fell with a loud crash. It pushed a chair a foot to its left, legs screeching against the metal floor. And in the commotion, Dipper collapsed.

He managed to catch himself mostly, though his knees landed against the metal rather hard. His hands took most of the blow as he unwillingly lowered to his elbow and then to his side. Dipper lay his head against the bundle of blankets collected on the floor. A small, tired whine gurgled up from inside him.

Dipper curled in on himself, rolling onto his side in a tight little ball. His eyes fluttered and wanted to close. So, he let them.

“Bill...” he spoke softly, unsure of why he said it at all. A part of him, deep down wanted the pirate there and it called for him, needed him. Dipper, though he refuse to admit it, felt strangely safe with Bill close by. It made him feel something other than depressing isolation and loneliness. It was crazy. It was an insanity that Dipper was afraid of, so he shut it away in his mind and refuse to think about it at all.

Dipper started to slip off into sleep once more, unsure if he heard the door to the cabin swing open or not. The room felt brighter but the black dots clouding his vision from behind his eyelids blurred everything. Soon, he was pulled back into a deep sleep. Hopefully this time to not dream of anything at all.

The Captain's cabin had fallen quiet for a long time and Bill was more than grateful for this. He'd tried and failed to fall back asleep, stretched out on his back, laying on the couch in an attempt to get comfortable. However, it felt too cramped and stiff. He wasn't able to find a position that let him rest peacefully, only fitful and huddled on the edge of a cushion. He rolled from his side to his back, then to his side again. Bill stripped out of his shirt in an attempt to feel relaxed. Nothing helped him thought.

All Bill desired was his own bed and currently it was being used by a simpering brat. It was an unfair trade really. If anyone should be uncomfortable and reduced to sleeping on a couch, or even the floor, it was the kid. Let him stay up all night tossing and turning instead. There was the possibility of slipping himself into someone else's bunk, under the pretense of a night time dalliance, but there were be even less room than alone on the couch and Bill would probably still not get any real sleep. It was absolutely frustrating.

How long had he been laying awake anyway, Bill couldn't be sure. It felt like a night's worth. But the sun had not even begun to tint the sky and from his place on the couch, stars were still visible through the small window. Beyond irritated, Bill groaned aloud and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb an finger. He pinched his eye closed tight and cursed the brat in his bed. He cursed himself for knowing full well that if he were to go in there, he still would not sleep - due to other reasons which had to do with his slim hipped, pale skinned, Pine Tree.

Bill's infatuation had come full tilt and was becoming an obsession. An unwise one at that. There was no reasoning behind it that Bill understood, nothing logical or realistic. Such an addictive need would only end badly for the both of them. However, Bill was not a reasonable man and did not care if something wasn't 'realistic'. He was a creature that defied the odds and made the impossible possible. He was a walking nightmare. He could cheat death. There was nothing he couldn't do, and that included keeping Pine Tree for himself, no matter the protest. Dipper could fight him, but every man had their breaking point. He could run, hide, attempt to take Bill's life daily, but eventually he would crack. The kid would be his eventually.

Bill chuckled, a lighthearted titter that made him smile wide. It was a beautiful little dream. One he was still unsure he'd ever act upon. Still, it was fun to dream, to pass the time imagining a life with Dipper sweetly remaining by his side without a fight. The boy was quite a little spit fire, bright and lovely. Bill shook his head, dismissing the silly idea. He was over tired and needed sleep. That's what was wrong with him – lack of sleep. It was making him delirious.

Bill lay a forearm across his eyes and sighed low, exhaling slowly and calmly. Then he heard it, as muffled as it was from behind closed doors, there came a crash. Something had fallen over, knocked over or thrown. Something heavy too, to cause a noise that loud, Bill frowned. What was Pine Tree doing... If he was trying to escape again, trying to cause trouble, Bill was not in the mood for such things. He would make his darling little Sapling regret getting out of bed.

Frowning, Bill pushed himself up off the couch, standing stiffly. He listened for more noises but nothing else was heard through the closed metal door. As he approached the door, Bill continued to listen. Everything felt still as if nothing had happened at all.

Bill wasn't hesitant to open the door, but he would be foolish to not expect some sort of surprising waiting for him in the dark of the cabin. It would be truly moronic to not suspect Pine Tree of attacking him again. The kid was stubborn after all. Stubborn and dedicated when pushed, that much was plain. So when Bill pulled the latch free of its set place, he did it with a seasonable level of caution. The heavy door was opened inch for inch and he awaited a jump scare from a brat with a new knife. However, it never came.

The room was dark as typical and quiet. A little stream of light from his office helped light the way enough to make out furniture. The light cast long shadows up the walls and over the floor. Immediately Bill noticed the bed was empty, not only vacant a body but stripped of the sheets. His gaze fell to the floor where blankets were bundled in a massive pile. Whatever he had been expecting, another murder attempt, Dipper trying to escape, whatever it was – it wasn't what he ended up seeing. Bill was take aback, momentarily stunned by what he saw and didn't understand.

Something had happened. Amidst the pile of thick blankets was his Sapling, face down and looked to be unconscious. Bill felt his chest flip, almost as if he was on the edge of a panic. Hurriedly he moved back into his office in search for a light. The closes thing was a simple oil lamp. He worked to light the wick with a nearby match and returned the glass shade over the base.

Whatever had happened minutes earlier, whatever put Dipper in this position didn't matter now. Bill brought the lamp into the sleeping cabin and knelt down next to the boy. With gentle fingers he touched the sleeping face. The pale white skin was moist with sweat and over heated. There was a constant raise and dip to the back facing him, telling Bill that at least the boy was breathing on his own. This was a good sign.

Carefully Bill ran his fingers through brown curls, brushing the hair apart, searching for an injury to the head or some remnant of blood. He found nothing which was only part comforting. Bill knew very well that there didn't need to be blood for there to be an injury. The brain could swell after impact, a broken neck. A number of things could be wrong. Bill would have to wait and see. He sighed and let his fingertips trace along Dipper's jawline.

“You are a nuisance, Pine Tree,” he told him. “A real pain in my ass. You're lucky you are cute because I wouldn't treat anyone else with this much kindness.”

Bill huffed and saw where all the noise had come from. Boxes of packed up trinkets had been knocked over, presumably because of Dipper. Why it happened didn't really matter any more. For now, he had a sleeping brat on his floor in a position that didn't look very comfortable. And as much as Bill would have loved to leave him there, he found he couldn't.

Dipper was rolled over and scooped up easily from the floor. The lanky body wasn't built for carrying like a maiden, long arms and awkward legs, but he was as heavy as a leaf and fit into Bill's chest well. He made sure to take care of the kid's head, not letting it swing back or from side to side, just in case something was wrong inside. Bill stood and moved him back to the bed again.

Once he'd set Dipper down the boy proceeded to whine and roll over looking for warmth. Definitely nothing was broken, Bill told himself. He felt like a fool for caring at all now. He huffed and rolled his eye.

Bill stretched and was about ready to turn away but he stopped himself. Guilt, pity, some deep need to listen to his obsession, whatever it was Bill bent down and grabbed the blankets off the floor. He didn't lay them out or tuck Dipper in. He wouldn't go that far. Instead he tossed the pile onto the bed and directly onto the sleeping body, not caring where they fell or how much of the boy they covered. If he was cold, he could figure it out himself. Bill nodded, satisfied with that at least.

He watched for a second too long, getting caught up in the way his Sapling nuzzled his cheek into the pillow, the way his pink lips parted to breathe softly in sleep. There was still a glow to his face from the drying sweat, strands of hair had glued themselves to his brow. He looked, in a word, sticky. Damp and smelly were other words Bill could use to describe the little shit taking up the majority of his bed.

Annoyed further, Bill ignored the mess on the floor and opened the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. There had to be something in there. Something small enough. He rummaged a bit through the clothes packed inside the drawer. Most of it wouldn't fit the skinny kid, even if belted and cinched up tightly. Well, a belt would have to be enough. All Bill could find were pants that were too large. He set them aside and grabbed one of his leather belts to go with them.

A shirt proved surprisingly easy when Bill took the time to look for one. For some reason or another he had a loose fitting shirt in a soft robins egg blue. It buttoned up the front and had a starched high collar that would sit snugly around the neck when done up. The sleeves were fuller and gathered around the cuff. Actually, now that Bill held it, he suspected it was a women's shirt. How did he even come to possess this piece of clothing, he wondered. Bill shrugged and he set it aside with the pants.

He left the mall bundle at the foot of the mattress. If the kid was smart, he would take the hint and change in the morning when he eventually woke up.

Dipper stretched in his sleep, tugging the blankets close to his face. He looked as though he found comfort in the plush sheets. Or maybe Bill was lying to himself, wanting to see something that wasn't actually there. As if the boy would be happy there...

Bill reached out a hand and brushed the damp hair out of Dipper's face. He caved, pathetically caved. With a noticeable hitch in his movements, hesitant and unsure, Bill bent down. He watched for any sign that his Pine Tree might wake up but there was nothing. The sleeping face remained relaxed and calm. He took his chances then and without a second thought or doubt, Bill place his lips to Dipper's skin. It was gentle and soft. Bill felt his stomach flutter as if this was the first time he'd ever kissed another. He wanted to laugh at himself for acting so delicate like some sad, stammering lovesick youth.

His fingers racked through brown curls. Bill kissed the kid's temple, just shy of his eyebrow. A smile crossed his face self-satisfied and proud like he'd just taken something long since owed to him.

Bill pulled away before he no longer could. He licked his lips and shivered over the taste of salt on his tongue. He would do no more. It was time he got some sleep himself.

With that done, feeling as though he had done some great charity by tending to the boy, Bill gathered the oil lamp and retreated for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update, and then to have it a shorter chapter in comparison to the last two. There was a lot going on and I couldn't write very much, and when I did I hated everything about the chapter. I think I wrote, edited, deleted and rewrote this single chapter five times since November... Didn't want to post something I wasn't happy with. This also, funny story, wasn't even originally what I planned for Chapter Six! But during rewrites I felt there was too big of a logic/emotional/character growth black hole that made no sense so I needed to fill that in. So here it is!  
The next chapter might be a long one, depending on if I get it laid out correctly, so that might take a little while again but not months. Promise.


	7. Chapter 7

The hour was early, far earlier than what could be considered ideal. The sun had just begun to rise, transforming the dark sky into something hazy, misty with yellows and oranges. Soon the sun would be above the horizon and the sky would be a clear bright blue. However no one would be paying it the attention and admiration it deserved.

Before the last star faded away Bill had gotten up, pacing his cabin unable to fake sleep. A headache, long since formed and throbbing, distracted him more so now than when he was laying in the dark. His own fault really. The cabin was now well lit, too much so now with the coming of day light. Lamps were turned up, a few candles idly flickered as he passed by, catching on the breeze he created. A stain glass oil lamp burned brightly close to the bookshelf, giving off shapes of red and navy blue against the bindings of the book spines and wooden shelves.

To his knowledge he may have slept about an hour before finally getting up. Sleep alluded him this night, like a slippery fish that wouldn't allow itself to be caught. But this was fine. Bill stretched and cracked his neck, the vertebrae loudly popping along his spine. He didn't care that he was half dressed from his failed attempt at sleep, trousers loose around his hips and wrinkled. The shirt he had worn the day before had been pulled back on due to a light chill about the room, though it remained unbuttoned and hung open over his chest. His hair was wild, sticking up in all directions. Thin strands of blonde were still plastered to the long since dried sweat of his brow. Bill barely notice or couldn't find it in himself to care one way or the other about this. He left it as was and chewed his lip in irritation.

At that moment his concerns were elsewhere, far from the measly vapid worries of having his hair combed. Instead his attention remained split, almost equally, between the day ahead and his little Sapling presumably still asleep in the next room. Bill groaned thinking about it. His palm came to press against his dead eye, applying a counter pressure to what built inside his skull. It was a throbbing just beneath the skin which radiated from his brain to teeth.

He needed the distraction of a busy work day to keep his thoughts on anything but the adjoining cabin. Because if his attention remained fracture, Bill felt as though his head would explode.

He had a ship to land and a crew to get in order. He didn't fly a simple air balloon after all. Everything needed to be in tiptop working order for his beautiful ship to land without issue. It would require more of his focus than his current state allowed. Despite how he tried to rein in his dizzying thoughts of chocolate eyes. They watched him whenever Bill so much as blinked, staring back at him in a panic, set into a chalk white face that looked haunted and broken. It was... inconvenient, Bill decided.

The Pines kid was a complete distraction from his work, disrupting his sleep, every waking thought he had. It was not ideal.

Bill wasn't exactly use to depriving himself of whatever caught his eye, not so deliberately anyway. Patience was a virtue and there was something in a chase that made Bill's blood boil with anticipation. Except this was no chase. A new shiny bobble, a valuable trinket, a person that roused his desire. Bill had no self control under such temptation and he was continuously keeping his prize locked away while he held the key.

He was greedy, plain and simple. So, keeping the little brat at arms length was a new form of challenge. Close enough that he could see him but not nearly enough that he could touch. A delicate little torture that was constantly testing Bill's sanity. Nothing was keeping him from the boy but himself. And he had no reasoning any longer as to why... Bill sighed heavily and shrugged his tight shoulders, rolling them back to loosen the muscle.

By the end of the day, Bill swore, by the end of the day he would finally end his unnecessary agony. His sweet little Pine Tree would finally be his own. As soon as his meeting was over and the ship was in the air once more.

It had to wait until then, and Dipper had to stay hidden away. Couldn't have any military officers eyeing his hostage and property. Some brave solider turning hero. Being foolish enough to think that they could _rescue_ him, more like - to steal what he had already rightfully stolen for himself. Bill wouldn't stand for such a thing to happen, at least not without a fight and a few decapitations. No one would lay their filthy hands on his Pine Tree.

Bill's pacing brought him back to stand by the closed cabin door. Just inside was his prize. A pale, fragile doll that was warm and would come to learn to behave better. In time Dipper would be content to stay put when told. For today however, Bill would have to leave him under lock and key, safely tucked away where no one knew of his existence.

Even though he wanted to go inside, to change his own clothes and to check on the kid, he kept himself from going in. He wouldn't even let himself touch the latch. Bill buttoned his shirt, tucking the hem into the waist of his pants. Eventually he would have to get over this strange, unfamiliar twist of his gut and face the boy. They would both have to learn to stand within a foot of one another. But for now, he could wait an hour or so.

Bill turned on his heels, sharply heading for the door with long strides. He refuse to look back. The door opened under his hand smoothly and Bill left the cabin.

The route he took was so familiar he could walk it blindfolded. The hallways, the stairs and corners. He made his way quickly through the ship's main body toward the bridge without a hesitant step.

Bill knew that once he stood behind the wheel he could occupy his mind with real work.

He passed by men already deeply focused on maintenance. They knew their job for the day and did not need instruction. Thankfully, because Bill was in little mood to micromanage his crew. One small miss step could find a man at the end of their Captain's sword or with a freshly smoking bullet hole through their head. The tension and borderline anger that came rolling off Bill was palpable, enough so that men scurried out from his path like scared rats.

He stormed on deck as per usual with his morning routine. The large space was almost completely empty besides one or two deck hands that were working on cleaning and maintaining certain pipes and vents. It would have been completely normal, except the sheer lack of his first mate. Bill scanned the room briefly before shouting out in a strong voice,

“Where's Strange?”

The deck hands jumped, looking to their captain as if they were in some sort of trouble. Currently they were not, unless they took their sweet time answering.

“Well? Where is he?” Bill continued, clearly annoyed and on edge.

“He was here shortly... but he left,” one of the deck hands offered.

Bill took a slow breath, waiting for a follow up statement that would perhaps answer his original question. “And went where exactly?”

“We don't know...”

“Of course you don't...”

He nodded and sighed, resting a hand on the ship's wheel. His finger started to tap restlessly. The rhythm slowly fell in time with the rattling motor of a near by machine. Bill clicked his tongue, casting his gaze over the gauges and dials. This was unacceptable, he thought to himself. Of all occasions for Tad to suddenly disappear from his post.

Bill frowned, finding it unusual for Tad's strictly routine behaviour to just change without warning. If something happened and it were an emergency, then Bill would have been notified immediately. If a menial task came up, Tad would have sent someone else to handle it.

Bill didn't approve of this suddenly questionable behaviour. Not that he wanted to be suspicious of his first mate. He would like to think after all this time Tad had earned some form of dependability within the crew, reliable even. Still, Bill didn't exactly _trust_ freely and without cause. His thoughts could be easily swayed by one wrong move. This made his legitimate faith and trust next to impossible to be gained. And Tad's growing absence was not doing the man any favours, no matter how long they had worked together. Tad's recent questioning, speaking out of turn, his loudly voiced objections over Bill's plans. It wasn't boding well for the man, that's for sure.

Before him the sun was rising. Whatever remnants of night remained in the sky was being drowned out by the sun's bright light, turning even the darkest corner to a brilliant blue. The light spilling in through the large front window was warm and soothing. It touched Bill's skin softly, heating the backs of his hands against the wheel. However, Bill did not enjoy the gentle caress as he may usually.

He was about to turn away from the bright daylight in order to track down Tad when the man himself came bounding on deck. The pale sailor looked shocked at first, almost like he hadn't expected to find Bill standing there waiting. At least Bill thought so as they locked eyes. Tad though took a quick breath, squared off his shoulders and looked down his nose as he normally did. Then, as if nothing was different from any other day, he made his way to his post, fulling turning his back to his Captain to show trust. Very brave of him, given Bill's mood and tenancies to inflict spontaneous punishment on those not expecting it.

But all Bill could see was the stiff neck of a man with a secret. Bill leant forward on the wheel, forearms resting against the wood. He looked between the deckhands and his first mate. They continued to work away like everything was as it should be, except Bill felt that he'd been left out on something rather important. Casually, though with a flinty quality to his tone, Bill spoke out, addressing Tad,

“Oversleep?”

As if he ever would... Bill could sniff out a liar as easily as anything and from the ever so slight flex of Tad's muscles gave it all away. As to the lie itself, Bill didn't know just yet.

“Of course not,” Tad said honestly.

“Lost then,” Bill teased.

“No, Captain.”

Bill huffed and allowed himself a small fulsome smirk. This would get them no where and Tad wasn't exactly one to spill his guts just because he was caught in a lie. The man would go down swinging and would use his last breath to swear to God that cats spoke fluent French and that he was a faithful, law abiding citizen. All lies. Bill respected that in a man but he still did not appreciate being lied to. The moment of silence dragged on between them, as if Tad was daring Bill to accuse him of doing something wrong or to call him out on his secrets.

It didn't even occur to him that there may ever be a slight possibility his heightened sense of paranoia was creating all this in his mind. Maybe this was all average behaviour and Bill had just never gotten to the deck so early. It was possible but unlikely. Bill was too good, could read people too well. He'd been right too many times before to think it was all an illusion. So in order to rattle his old friend, he blatantly asked,

“Where were you, Tad?”

Tad barely glanced back over his shoulder. He was shuffling through papers and catching up on his work, acting like Bill was concerned over an empty cup of tea in need of refilling. His face held a focused, if a little bored, expression that Bill recognized well. One of those thin black brows curved up into a questioning raise.

“I did a round below deck to check on progress.”

Likely, believable, and Bill hummed, accepting this an answer. It was unsatisfying but possible enough to be the truth.

“Were you up all night drinking, Captain?” Tad asked offhandedly, no longer looking his way. Of course there would be evidence enough written all over Bill's face to warren this fact. It did not need to be asked. Bill's face was pale and dry from ill rest, dark circles showing under his visible eye. He'd yet to eat or drink anything that resembles real sustenance.

“Something like that,” Bill mused. He subconsciously ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the blonde locks back and away from his face. It smoothed it down and off to the side for now.

“We will be landing mid afternoon,” Tad continued. “There has been no word of reschedule. So, we are ready to move as planned.”

Bill nodded. “I suppose you checked that out personally. Hmm... No matter. Carry on then,” he said, refusing to show any sign of doubt in his first mate. Silently he did wonder just how frequently Tad had taken a trip down to check the telegraphs to know this. It would have had to be recent. Bill righted himself up behind the wheel. “If everything is under control here, I will do my own round of the ship.”

There was no response from Tad, any hint of fear or nerve. The man stood tall and calm, confident in himself. He looked almost indifferent. But Bill knew better, under that quiet exterior Tad was fully aware that Bill was on to him. If his first mate was planning a mutiny or something as absurd as to hand him gift wrapped to the Navy then Tad would find himself on the receiving end of Bill's anger. In fact, Bill would take great pleasure in beating down on that skinny body until every bone was fractured or broken. All because of speculation and suspicion. He'd enjoy taking a solid object and using it to club Tad's skull until it was a caved in mass of blood and brain.

However, without any proof of betrayal, Bill left Tad whole. He gave no verbal warning or alleged statements as he left the bridge. He simply held his head high and left with an easy walk.

The telegraph machine was deep within the ship. All messages, coming and going, were monitored and recorded. If anything was to be suspected of Tad, Bill would find it there. He would be looking for gaps in the records or anything that was out of the ordinary. Something could be taken from his years under Ford's supervision. Bill had learned many things, how machines worked, recordings, the experimental use of wireless communication, even morse code. He could thank the man for his useful teachings. He could, but wouldn't waste his breath doing so. He valued it as freely given information and Bill was under no obligation to feel grateful or indebted in any way, shape or form.

His boots echoed through the hall as he marched forward. Set on his destination, Bill had no time for anyone in his way. Determination was bright in his eye and nothing could slow him down. As he approached the stairs leading deeper into the ship some poor soul happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, heading passed, innocently working. Bill didn't get a good look at his face, wouldn't have been able to name the bastard or what his purpose on board was, nor did it matter. In that moment, he was a roadblock and Bill was angry.

Bill's boot came up, planting itself dead centre in the pirate's back. He kicked out.

The firm, quick push sent the bulk of a man flying forward and down the metal stairs in a heap. His body bounced off the railings on either side, limbs tangling, bones banging against steel. The sound of his fall filled the hallway, mixed with the man's cut off gasps and groaned in pain.

Bill descended the stairs after him as it was taking him to his original planned destination. Unlike the man before him, Bill's steps were graceful and planted.

At the bottom of the steep set of stairs, the body of the pirate lay in pile. The man looked in pain. The clear sight of a shoulder dislocated from its socket and multiple bruises which would soon be visible. Bill spared him a look as he easily stepped over him.

It was then, as Bill made his way into the bowels of the ship, that he spotted one of his oldest crew mates, someone who he has known for a long time. A familiar face from a time when he wasn't Captain.

The man was trustworthy, meaning he followed whoever held the highest authority. Not easily bribed by lower class criminals or bought simply with money. He was a loyal sheep following the herd and knew his place in line. The perfect person, in Bill's opinion, to be his eyes and ears in his absence when needed. Bill strode over with intent, a smile growing on his face to reach ear to ear.

The pirate came to a complete halt in his duties to face his Captain. He was a very short man, stout with broad shoulders and a bald head. His skin was riddled with pockmarks and old scars from injuries long since healed. It left a rippling effect over large patches of skin, creating ridges and divots from where the skin had been opened and closed, then pulled tightly together in stitched seams.

The pirate looked up as Bill approached. He had a crooked jaw that jut forward, unable to fully hold his ill fitting denture which were too big for his mouth. They pushed passed his lips and made it impossible for him to properly close his mouth. His jaw clicked and he coughed in a greeting.

“Teeth,” Bill said, addressing the man. He kept a cheerful tone, despite his current mood.

The man, Teeth, could sense Bill's irritability and kept his words short as to not provoke irrational action. He nodded and spoke, “yes, Cap'n.” The words came out with a clumsy lisp as his lips formed odd shapes around his protruding dentures.

“I need you to do me a little favour.” Bill lowered his tone, bending down to talk one on one.

“Wha'd ya need?”

He tented his fingers and chuckled happily, pleased by the man's willingness to do his bidding without hesitation.

“That's what I like to hear.” Bill cast a quick glance about for anyone who could be overhearing them, but no one was there to listen in. With a grin he said, “keep a close eye on Tad. I have reason to think his loyalty isn't all there. If you get my meaning.”

“Will do, Cap'n.”

“Good man. When this business is all over, there'll be something good in it for you,” Bill promised, backing away with nothing further to say. He gave Teeth a hearty pat on the shoulder as he passed by, continuing on down the narrowing hallway towards his destination.

The fist thing he could feel upon waking was the pain. It was a sharp sting, like a wound that burned in the open air, just right of his brow. Deep inside his head, behind his eye, a building pressure that wanted to go off like an explosion. A headache, strong and painful. Dipper groaned and kept his eyes closed tight, positive that if he opened them to the light he would die. His fingers traced the vein in his temple. It pulsed under his touch. More than anything he wished he could sink his nails into the skin and make the throbbing pain stop. But he couldn't.

It was a common sensation to him, the feeling like his head was ready to crack and break open. Dipper was no stranger to the symptoms of a headache. Still, it was unpleasant and he truly hated them. It was hard to simply 'be use to it' and ignore the bottled up pressure coursing through his blood. He took a slow, deep breath and tempted his luck by opening one eye to the room around him. The light was bright, even though it was still dim and dulled down due to it being the morning's artificial light. There was no blinding sunlight streaming in across his face, but it could have very well been its equal in his current condition. Dipper squinted and groaned over how the the electric lighting hurt him.

He covered his face with his hands and breathed through his nose to try and calm himself. He had not slept well. For how long it had seemed, it was not restful. It was merely his body's reaction to his overly anxious, panicked state. A mechanical way of protecting one's self while under high stress and tension. The dizzy feelings, the nausea and sweating... He had fainted. Dipper remembered that. He had fainted like a weak, sick child on the floor. However, he had no memory of how he'd been returned to the bed. If he had woken up at some point through his haze to stumble back over, then it was pure luck. He chose to count his stars and be thankful.

Now however, he was paying the price of his body shutting down. The lingering symptoms of a fainting spell. It was such a pitiful existence which made him hate himself all the more. To be so delicate that stress could make him pass out. To think he was a note for note case study of feminine hysteria. It was laughable and degrading. Thankfully, the knowledge of all this would only ever pass between himself and his sister. To know that he had laid down for a spell on her fainting couch when his headaches were at their worst. It was their little secret.

His mind did not even wish to drift to other thoughts, thoughts that were imposing and waiting just belong the surface of his conscious mind to make their presence known. Thoughts like Bill and his cat like smile. How it twisted Dipper's gut in dangerously pleasant ways. How he had unknowingly used such mental images for his own sick benefit in the dark of the night. No, Dipper refuse to think of that. He would not let himself, or wonder why he didn't notice his own actions at the time. He had just been so caught up in the moment, the wonderfully tempting illusion of it all. However and why ever it had happened, he simply choose not to go there in his mind.

So, Dipper groaned and came down from his groggy state slowly. He kept his thoughts elsewhere and tried to relax his brain which felt like it was about to spontaneously combust inside his skull.

With slow movements, Dipper braced himself against the mattress and made the effort to sit up. His head pounded from internal pressure, his neck was stiff and the pain left him sweating in his thin shirt as if he were wearing wool in summer. It was a horrendous feeling and Dipper sighed, defeated physically but he refuse to give into his desire to remain under the covers. Wilful, albeit laboured and slow, Dipper sat and pushed the blankets from his lap. He slid from the bed on trembling limbs and forced himself to stand.

The room was as he left it the night before, with the numerous blankets half crumpled on the floor, some on the bed and some in between. Now lit by the electric lamp lights he could see he'd knocked over a trunk. A drawer of the Captain's wardrobe had been banged open. He'd apparently made quite the mess of the place. Although a stranger to the scene wouldn't be able to tell, not with how Bill shoved and stored boxes and furniture in every nook in his cabins.

Dipper was surprisingly use to the clutter, or rather, was becoming use to it. He wasn't sure. Prolonged exposure to it simply made it feel natural, perhaps this was his reasoning. But there was something nice about it, in the same way his library back home was stuffed full with books and tables, desks and chairs, boxed into a small room which felt secure and homey.

Dipper crept across the floor, lifting his feet to step over the upturned array of items now littering the path to the sink. He thought briefly of picking them up and reorganizing them but he couldn't find the motivation to go through with such a task. Instead he stepped up to the wash sink and turned on the tap. With a look of disgust he watched as the dried remains of last night wash away down the drain. Dipper cupped his hand under the running water and helped to eliminate the evidence and make the basin at least look clean.

The water ran cold under his hot fingers and it felt nice, refreshing even. He bent down to the stream flowing from the tap and drank a handful of cold water. The spray hit his face, coating his lips and chin. He sighed, feeling the smallest amount better.

Hand cold and wet, he bowed his head and laid it over the back of his neck. A chill ran up his spine and up into the base of his skull, calming ever so slightly the throbbing pain which bloomed from there. He wished he could stay like this, comfortably soothed by the cold water. But as Dipper closed his eyes and let himself relax, all he could see in his mind was Bill's spiteful expression and his single hard eye sizing him up like a sack of mouldy potatoes, unwanted, useless, and not worth a penny. Dipper let out a soft laugh because he couldn't agree more.

Leaning over the sink again for more water, he splashed it over his face to rid himself of the lingering sweat and heat. It was a wonderful relief that he didn't feel as though he deserved. Still, he selfishly washed away his regret and self hatred, cleaning his skin and easing the heat under the surface.

A sharp, searing sting of pain made Dipper head swim and he almost fell forward against the basin. He shut off the water completely, about to resigned himself to a whole day in bed. Or maybe to lay on the floor where the temperature was lessened by the hard metal. Dipper trudged back toward the bed. This time his feet dragged and he kicked anything that got in his way. Less careful and far less caring.

Returning to the bed, Dipper dropped over the foot of the mattress. Giving up entirely and curling like a cat around the blankets piled there. He could have stayed that way, bundled in a lumpy pile of disarray for eternity, until the pressure in his brain finally lead to a deadly climb and ended his life there. He would have to if not for something small and hard digging into his hip. And the longer Dipper tried to ignore it, the more aware he was of it, small and circular pressing into his bone. He rolled over, no longer finding his position comfortable.

Annoyed he sat up to moved what disturbed him. But as soon as his fingers curled around the material of the random item, Dipper paused, confused and curious. It was soft in his hand, thin yet sturdy. The beautiful light feminine blue looked perfectly complimentary against his pale skin. Holding it up, Dipper found it to be a shirt, long-sleeved with a long run of hard buttons down the front. Somehow he hadn't noticed it on the bed before, or where it even came from. Dipper looked from the shirt to the wardrobe. He was sure that he did not grab it at any time last night.

This lead all reasonable thought to conclude that Bill was in here last night, and left this for him for today.

Dipper's face turned a bright red. The very idea that Bill was here while Dipper had slept, it was embarrassing and felt so inappropriate. Though this had to be his deeply ingrained acceptable social behaviour, and implied that there was something between the two men. Which was ridiculous. Dipper squashed the feelings inside him, the type that left butterflied in his stomach and made his heart hammer. It was nonsensical to think that way.

However, he could not deny that Bill had been there and had left him a shirt. Clothes actually, Dipper corrected himself as he found a pair of trousers folded below where the shirt had been place on the bed. He didn't want to be grateful towards the pirate at all. And he wouldn't ever say so, wouldn't express thanks what so ever. Dipper decided to react with selfishness and entitlement towards the small gift. He huffed and stood up, wanting to change out of his sweat stained clothes.

Dipper aggressively removed his current shirt and tossed the thing into the corner of the room. Without a second thought, driven by sheer ridiculously stuck up pride, Dipper started to wash himself in the sink. It was messy, tricky, and left large puddles at his feet, but however he couldn't have cared less about it. The distraction of bathing and the coolness of the water, aided in taking Dipper's mind off his massive headache and the throbbing in his temple.

Water splashed over his skin, running in streams before dripping off him. The little to no soap was quickly used up within minutes. Dipper wished he could have a real bath but indulged in the temporary blessing that was clean water and the ability to make himself so. There was something freeing about the action, washing away the previous day as if it never happened. He soaked his hair under the faucet until the weight of the water loosened his curls and dripped everywhere. He brushed the wet bangs from his eyes and blinked. A frown crossed his face out of annoyance which was settling into his bone. Shutting the water off he pushed off from the sink.

“Fuck,” Dipper breathed out into the silent room, finding himself a little breathless.

Dripping wet and barely dressed, with his worn, dirty trousers sliding low on his hips, he turned back toward the bed. Instead of immediately getting dressed, he fell over onto a spot which didn't have as many blankets piled high. It was comfortable there and dry. Dipper closed his eyes and did what he could to forget the pain in his head and the many memories of the night prior. But with nothing else to focus on, he could only find himself becoming dizzy with depressing thoughts of his family...

Where were they, and if they were alive still. If they were actually coming for him, or had they abandoned him. If no one came for him soon, what would become of him. Surely Bill wasn't about to keep him around for no reason. If Dipper wasn't a good hostage, he was useless and there was no point in keeping him alive at all. He would be killed and disproved of. No one would have ever known or would ever know. He would simply disappear with next to no one to remember him.

The only person that would mourn him would be Mabel. Dear sweet Mabel... His energetic, persistently lovable twin sister. She had a kind heart and would miss him.

Dipper snorted aloud. She would mourn him until something drew her attention, then she would temporarily forget him as well. As sweet and caring as Mabel could be, focused she was not. She was the type to quickly get distracted and fly off on a whim of her own fancy, ignoring other's opinions and needs. Some called her a free spirit, others would say she was selfish. Dipper fell in between, depending on the case.

He felt he couldn't blame her for acting how she does. She had been born with enough spark of life for the two of them. If he had been the one with all that health and energy, he may have fallen into the same sort of behaviour. Instead he was the more intelligent and studious sibling, the one with the most burden to succeed. Dipper could see how his sister could easily fall into routine of whim and fun, when the world came so easily to you and whatever one could want they were given. He would change places with her if he could. Funny enough.

Dipper wished his biggest problem in his life was whether or not some eligible suitor was interested in him, whether he would be asked to some party and escorted by some handsome man, if his perfume was rose or vanilla. He could laugh over it because even though it was ridiculous he would gladly accept that lifestyle. However, he was destined to be used by his family for money and connections, to advance themselves. That is, if he ever got to walk as a free man again.

Dipper lifted his head off the bed, opening his eyes to the room around him. Skin now dry, but hair still dripping wet, he grabbed for the clean pair of pants and the shirt left out for him at the end of the bed.

Still uncomfortable with being naked in the Captain's cabin, even when left alone, Dipper quickly traded his pants for the clean ones. They were longer, reached his ankle like proper pants. However, they were too big and a dark grey, almost black. Not terribly big but they sagged messily. Dipper grabbed the belt that was left out too and pulled it tight around his waist. He was more a fan of suspenders personally but when it a pinch, or when gifted clean clothes, he couldn't exactly be picky.

The belt was tightened to its last rivet at his waist. Dipper grimaced only noticing now how small he'd become. He shouldn't have been so surprised as he was. The lack of food for so long, the decrease in energy and how easily he could be made dizzy... He shrugged it off and chose not to think of how much weight he probably lost on his already thin frame, as well as gross he must look now.

Finally, Dipper stood up on his own feet without stumbling or acting as though he were walking on egg shells. He stood firmly in place and brushed the wrinkles from his thighs. Sure enough, nothing fell out of place and he once again had trousers. The legs were longer than the ankle, bunching over his heel, but it was barely noticeable.

He grabbed for the shirt once more and slid the soft pastel material up his arms. Where the pants were too big, the shirt was too small. While the cut of the shirt was meant to be loose and billow around the cuffs and waist, it sat oddly against his tall frame. It was too tight, not impossibly so nor was it too uncomfortable, easily forgotten over time but it was still too small for him. The length of the sleeve didn't even reach his wrist. When he stretched out one arm, the ruffled and buttoned cuff stopped along his forearm. He sighed heavily and folded the ruffle inside the cuff so it would be out of the way.

Upon buttoning the shirt to his collar, Dipper found it sat fine. It was odd against his skin, the smoothness of the fabric and the cut. The buttons were the most annoying part, Dipper decided. They were small and numerous, running from high collar to waist. It felt excessive and reminded him of a dress his mother owned where small fabric coated buttons ran the length of her back. The colour reminded him of his mother as well, soft, dainty and feminine. Hardly a masculine colour at all.

Dipper sat on the mattress edge as he fiddled with the awkward cuff length. How long had he been up, he wondered. What time was it. His stomach grumbled in protest of not being fed. Was he expected to remain put until Bill came or was he able to go out into the main cabin on his own as he had before. Would he be caged away once more. Be it one room or two, Dipper knew his imaginary free range was limited and monitored. But now, after what had transpired between he and Bill the night before, what would happen now...

Bill had left him alive and unharmed physically. Dipper could hardly say this was a blessing or not.

Dipper drew his lower lip between his teeth and gnawed on the thin skin, leaving marks behind imprinted in the warm flesh. He huffed and sighed as he impatiently waited for the door to open, for there to be a knock, a voice, something to indicate that something was going to happen to him. He didn't want to see Bill but the isolation was claustrophobic and maddening.

Dipper sat on the bed waiting quietly for a number of minute to the point where it felt to be a waste of time. No one was coming. He stood, hands curling into fists at his sides. A few short steps placed him before the closed door. He listened for movement on the other side but heard none. Through the thick metal, usually Dipper could hear the occasional sound, even if it was a extremely muffled and distorted. However, now he heard nothing at all. With reasonable hesitation, he placed his hand on the door handle. Perhaps Bill was asleep still and the hour was earlier than Dipper originally thought, or he was working or simply absent from the room.

Dipper's stomach turned unpleasantly, no longer feeling particularly hungry. He had two choices, stay hidden inside the sleeping cabin or risk leaving the imaginary safety it provided and face Bill. Clearly in the end, his decisions did not matter. Eventually Bill would come whenever he pleased and Dipper could not throw him out. There was no safety from the man here or anywhere. He couldn't really hide, surely not for long. Even if he tried, Bill would find him.

And Dipper was afraid. He feared the pirate beyond physical harm. Just standing in his presence made Dipper feel weak and helpless, like he needed help to stand. Bill held a power over him that was terrifying, so much so that if separated for too long, Dipper feared he may forget how to breathe.

Dipper's hand tightened on the handle. His fingers trembled softly against the metal.

Bill could have taken his hole hand if so inclined. He had stood over Dipper while he slept but did nothing to him. Without lifting a finger Bill could invade Dipper's dreams and fantasies in the most perverse ways. He was like an all encompassing being that wanted to possess Dipper's soul and torture him from the inside out. It was sick and terrible and he was deeply afraid of what Bill was doing to him. Dipper was helpless against him and he knew it well.

It was a surrender or die deal. Continuously fighting Bill would inevitably drive Dipper to suicide before anyone could ever rescue him. That is, if anyone was even coming. As the days slowly ticked by, he was starting to doubt any sort of escape or rescue.

Minutes passed and still Dipper hadn't moved from the doorway. He just stood there, eyes glued to the smooth metal door. Dipper sighed through his nose, willing his body to stop shaking. He could face his death like a man. He could keep his back straight and die with his chin up.

With false bravery, he pulled the handle back to open the door. The heavy metal creaked and allowed itself to be set back away from its frame. The small gap offered a glimpse into the next room. Dipper stuck his nose out before ever taking a step.

The room was in full swing of a usual morning, well lit and all, yet there was no sign of use or movement of life. The room was completely still. The only noise was from the ship itself, droning constantly in the background of his mind at all times, as well as the ticking of the wooden clock along the far wall. The lights hummed and buzzed with electricity.

The obvious absence to the room's atmosphere was the mathematical accuracy of a pen scratch to paper, the soft grunts of approval or of frustration, the swearing and self-directed praise of one missing pirate. Bill was gone and Dipper didn't know where to or why.

“...Bill?” Dipper whispered softly. His voice cracking from the dryness in his throat. There was no answer returning to him and he took a timid step forward.

“Bill?” Dipper repeated louder.

He swallowed and licked his lips unsure of what to do. However, he couldn't stand there like a statue all day, and if he thought too hard and weighed out every option he could ever have _there_ was where he would end up remaining. So, almost by force, he pushed himself into the next cabin and took a few awkward steps into the open space. The silence was unnerving and Dipper almost wished for a familiar lively sounds Bill made. A whistling or a chuckle.

There was something so uncomfortable about the cabin with Bill gone, like fear of the unknown. It was easier to maintain distance and predict Bill's behaviour with the man present. It was almost a cautionary measure to keep Bill in eye sight at all times, just to be careful of one's own neck.

Dipper didn't have much time to adjust to the quiet cabin, not before his eye caught sight of the large door which kept him from escape. One thick sheet of metal, hinged into the frame and locked with a latch. All Dipper could see was freedom. It called to him, urged him forward try his luck.

His feet moved without his direction, clumsily rushing across the carpet. But he came to a dead stop, inches from the door frame. Through his blind hurry, a thought struck him. Dipper busy mind was quickly listing off all the ways this could go terribly wrong. What's more, his instinctive reaction was that it felt wrong.

It felt wrong to escape and to dash out into an unknown hallway, to leave. Not only was it an undoubtedly possibility that the door was locked tight, if not guarded just on the other side, but he had to remember that this was a pirate ship. He could be leaving the security of the Captain's cabin only to walk directly into the hands of a less than friendly mash up of criminals. And while Bill wasn't someone Dipper would describe as trustworthy or respectful, he showed restrained at times and had left Dipper alive and surprisingly well. There was absolute no guarantee that a group of pirates would be as generous, should they find him alone and out of their Captain's reach and protection.

Still, the temptation to escape was there. Taunting him with opportunity that only an idiot would turn up. Dipper swallowed heavily and looked around the room. Bill was gone and there was no one watching. This was a chance he never expected to be given. It would be foolish to pass it up, despite the known consequences.

His heart started to beat heavier in his chest, a panicked anxiety setting over him. Dipper was scared, desperate even. He took a sliding step forward as a million terrible outcomes ran through his head. Bill would catch him. The crew would catch him. He'd be ripped apart before they finally killed him. He'd get away, get off the ship to finally breath fresh air and feel the sunlight. He'd never see Bill again. Dipper's brow knit itself together.

For all he knew the thing might not even be locked. It was possible. He could get away, maybe. It was reassuring, despite the fact Dipper turned away from the door. He chose to believe freedom was possible, even to save himself the heart crushing realization that he was locked in this whole time.

Dipper brought a hand to his chest and rubbed at it, soothing an internal ache where his heart lay. Bill had spent years tracking down Ford. Dipper knew the man would tear the ship apart, piece by piece, and render its mechanical beauty to a heap of scrap metal all to hunt him down. He knew this all too well, and it almost made him smile.

There was no escaping the pirate. Dipper let out a horribly sad laugh which directed itself back at him. He was just a pathetic little weakling that could never outrun anyone let alone a pirate with am over developed sense of revenge. He could run, hide, escape to the furthest corners of the planet, but Bill would find him in the end. All because Bill was a man that could not be bested, he wouldn't allow it. No matter how clever Dipper was or tricky, Bill would out do him in the end. The feelings this gave Dipper resembled admiration closely.

Just to know that someone would go through the trouble of tearing a world apart, burning it to the ground, all because of him, was flattering. Even with all its negative meanings.

Dipper huffed and rubbed at his eyes. He wasn't crying but felt as though he could start. He felt as though his soul were as delicate as a dry leaf, able to crumble with just a breath of wind. It was pathetic and tiring. Dipper cleared his throat and lifted his chin high. He wasn't going to back down like that. He wasn't going to act like a sad little child. His hands balled into tight fists.

He turned from the door and dragged himself back into the centre of the room. His foot tapped, hands fidgeting by his sides. It was impossible to stand still. Furthermore, it was beyond strange to be alone again, particularly in this room. Without Bill around to occupy his attention, Dipper quickly starting to feel distracted by the amount of things kept in odd places. Collectibles and trinkets, stuffed onto tables, shelves, in corners, out of the way on the floor. Most of it was probably spoils from fights and raids, won or stolen. A lifetime of crime and greed. Dipper felt conflicting emotions towards it all. On the one hand he was uncomfortable and knew full well Bill's ill-gotten gains were terribly immoral. But on the other, his curious eye wandered from item to item, interested and even amazed by some of the things he saw from a distance.

Eventually his awestruck amusement won over all, either as a method of distraction or legitimate curiosity. He almost didn't know where to look first and settled on a small table off to his left by default. The table was tucked off to the side, sitting below a row of shelves. Dipper scanned over all the little trinkets with a rapidly growing interest.

There were frames which displayed pinned bugs, a scattering of bones, jars of rocks and shells and other stranger contents. Dipper avoided one jar filled to the brim with what were most certainly teeth. Instead he picked up a rock that had a small imprint on its surface. Humming to himself, he ran his fingers over the ridges and grooves of what was a fossilized fish. It was amazing. This small room had more fascinating curiosities than some museums he'd been to. They ignited his imagination and left his mind spinning with questions. Where had Bill found all this. How many places had he travelled to. Where would he go next. Dipper, jealous, wanted to know. He wanted to see them for himself.

Dipper set the rock down in favour of marvelling at a pinned butterfly set into a glass case. The insect was quite large, larger than any butterfly Dipper had ever seen before. The full wing span could very well fit Dipper's full palm. It was almost completely white. The only accents on the pure wings were a speckling of black around the curved tips. A small name plaque on the glass box read Morpho Polyphemus, Mexico. Dipper smiled. He'd ever been to Mexico before. He wished, wholeheartedly wished that he could see these butterflies flying alive and bright for himself.

Dipper set the frame down too, eyes roaming to the next new and exiting thing. He passed over a small animal skeleton, pieced together carefully to be held up on display. His fingers lazily grazed silver, gold, a deep coloured jewel. Candles. Dried herbs and flowers. Crystals and shallow bowls of dusts. Bill had quite the strange collection.

Pausing for a moment, Dipper touched the lid of a polished silver, heavily ornate jewellery box. It was small and round was embellished with raised swirls and stylized flowers. It made him stop because the little box reminded him of one Mabel owned. The difference being the value of such an item. The jewellery box Dipper held under his palm was worth a small fortune on its own. He could probably buy a city with its contents.

However the memory of his sisters made him stop his wandering, even for a brief moment. He felt more hesitant to examine this item but he wasn't entirely sure as to why. A finger lightly played with the small key still resting in the lock. He knew Bill had no reason to lock anything here. Who would steal from the Captain. Dipper turned the key and lifted the lid.

Inside the box was nothing short of a treasure. Stuffed snugly into the small confines of the case was a life times worth in valuables, all dressed up as fancy wearables. Diamonds, gold. Greens and blues and pinks. Pearl earrings. Precious stones set into a canvas of velvet. Chokers and necklaces. Broaches and bracelets. The first thing Dipper even dared to touch was a long, thin hair pin which held a round opal stone at one end.

Surely no one on board this ship would ever appreciate these finely crafted trinkets. He knew so well how his sister would react to the small box. How she would scream and become quickly overwhelmed by the shimmering metals and stones.

Dipper sorted carefully through the box, trying to be as gentle as possible. God forbid anything were to break under his awkward fingers. Gold felt sturdy under his thumb. Wanting to take a closer look, he pulled a single gold bangle from the jewellery box. It was the most simple piece in the collection for sure. No dangling chains of beads or diamonds, no excessive bobbles. It was a plain gold bangle that while slim and small, and looked durable.

He was just being curious. Dipper fit the small piece of jewellery over his hand. He would put it back and non would be the wiser.

It was a tight fit, uncomfortably pinching his thumb as it slipped on. But once on, the gold dangled off his wrist in a delicate circle, shining in the lamp light. The warm tones complemented his pale skin and made the pinks look doll like, painted and fragile. Dipper never liked his translucent skin, thinking it made him look sick. However this looked almost flattering, even against the dry scars around his wrist. The bracelet took the attention off those unsightly things.

The sight still brought a light smile to his face, just a small tug on his lips. He decided he liked the bangle but it was not his and he couldn't keep it. Dipper gently pushed at the bracelet to take it off. He'd put it back and move along. The small size hooked on his thumb and wouldn't budge from his wrist.

Dipper immediately felt the colour drain from his face. He gave a fearful shove against his wrist but the gold held firm, stuck against the joint of his thumb and his palm. The more he struggled the more the edge of the bangle rubbed and bit into his skin, refusing to move passed his wide hand. He grunted and pushed again until his wrist popped. Dipper swore lightly, panic building up inside his gut. What could he do.

Cut the metal, cut his hand. He was low on ideas and had no time to try anything but tug and hurt himself.

Behind him the lock of the main door was heavily set back on its hinges. There was a thud as it was pulled back. It made Dipper jump, a high pitched sound of panic escaping him. In a flurry of movements he slammed the lid of the jewellery box closed, pretending like it had always been untouched.

Dipper spun around to face the door, using his whole body to hide the jewellery box and his hands behind him. He held his breath as the cabin door swung open. His fingers slipped over the wood table top until both his hands were safely out of sight. Desperately he hooked his fingers around the bangle and continued to pull to the point of pain.

He could feel his mouth run dry, his heart beat faster and a pinkness stain his ill white cheeks. There was no time to escape to the next room, no chance of hiding, not as Bill stepping into the cabin. The man, at first looked to be occupied by his own thoughts, until he saw Dipper standing near by, just off to the side of the room. Then their eyes met and an almost startled expression cast over his face. It was as if Bill hadn't expected Dipper to leave the other room.

There was a moment where neither of the two moved or spoke, simply stood in silence staring at one another. They waited, as if the other would move first.

Dipper swallowed, uncomfortable under the heavy gaze and fearful of what Bill would do when he caught him touching his things. His chest rose and fell quickly with each worried intake of air. Behind his back his fingers worked around the gold but couldn't make it budge. He gave up completely, trying to pull the cuff of his sleeve further down his arm. If he could at the very least hide the bangle, he could figure out what to do about it later. He hoped.

He was met with much resistance, the fabric being too short as it was. It wouldn't even reach the piece of jewellery let alone hide it. Dipper parted his lips, wanting to say something to distract Bill but couldn't think of anything to say. Dipper licked his lips, trying to press himself further into the table's edge.

There would not be a chance for him to speak before a cold look overtook Bill's expression. The confused spark in his eye was level with a lethal intent. Every feature of his face set into place like stone, hard and unforgiving.

“Pine Tree,” Bill sang with a toothy grin. “It's funny how dumb you are.”

With a power hand, Bill slammed the cabin door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This storing is careening toward Stockholm Syndrome territory. Oops... Ma' bad~  
Also the amount of fact checking I've been doing while writing this story is kind of amazing. I've learned a lot.
> 
> Tried to clear up some questions over what was wrong with Dipper. In an attempt to 'show don't tell' kind of way. Hope it makes a little more sense now. My head cannon wit Dipper is that he is the smart but less healthy twin. Not chronically ill or anything but skinny and weaker, maybe anemic. (Who knows) What I couldn't quite explain was why Dipper was shut down and couldn't remember Bill. That is do to something called 'Transient Global amnesia' or similarly 'Dissociative amnesia', which is "a sudden, temporary episode of memory loss" "It is usually caused by trauma or stress" and is not linked to injury or neurological conditions. So essentially Dipper got super stressed and blanked everything out for an hour or so. Hope that helps clear that up.


	8. Chapter 8

Bill once believed that if angels truly existed, they would wear white. Held in his mind since childhood lay an image based in reference to renaissance paintings of cherubs and angels. Beautiful creatures with curls and soft cheeks. Lounging angels, pure, innocent, stainless, and white. He chose to believe this representation, finding splendour in the shimmering wings that basked in heavenly sunlight. And even if they were wrapped in silks and shrugs of vivid reds or royal purples, they would always wear a soft colour that brought out their paler than human complexion, delicate and bleached like cotton.

For a long time Bill had this idea of some otherworldly, ethereal creature that was perfect and untouchable. Now, he found himself completely unimpressed with his own imagination.

The rose tinted pallor, the stainless white wings and each flawless feature was now bland and boring. The purity was undesirable and left an sour taste to linger on his tongue. The unappealing heavenly being was no more beautiful than an unwanted sunrise when one preferred the night. Most of all the white colouring felt in poor taste. Bill decided, without a shadow of a doubt in his mind, that he'd been wrong for years. Because as he stood, hand on the cabin door, feeling as though he'd been blindsided and struck by a motor cab, Bill decided that all angels should wear blue. It did not matter the shade as long as it was blue.

The sight before him, clad in a lovely combination of black and light blue, was a refreshing thing to see in a mood which had been so heavily tainted by bad news. It was something Bill didn't expect to see returning to his cabin. And while it wasn't a warm welcome back, it felt like more than he deserved just seeing the boy cleaned up - having taken the offer of new clothes.

The clothes didn't particularly fit the frame well, being too large or too small, even too narrow in certain areas. Still, the boy wore it surprisingly well, striking an oddly complimentary balance between uncomfortably restricted and perfect. The light shades did wondered for the sickly pale skin still dotted with bruising and scabs, bringing out some hint of life to his flushed cheeks and pink lips. The sleeves were too short for his long arms and would have left his cut up wrists exposed if they weren't wrapped behind his back.

Bill also knew the flawed freckled marks the kid's skin held, which stood out dark and defined, would be visible again. To some it would look terribly unattractive, but Bill only wanted to count them and map them like stars, to know each one intimately.

The boy looked perfect amidst his well earned treasures, as if he was equal value to gold and diamonds, a well earned prize won at the gambling tables or stolen from a museum. In a way, Bill supposed he was a stolen treasure. He did, after all, kidnap him. The weak, knobbly kneed child, barely able to be considered an adult, with his fragile bones, was a nice little prize that Bill wasn't keen to part with. Especially not when he cleaned up so nicely.

However, the kid seemed to have other plans and wouldn't be content to remain as a pampered cabin boy for Bill's pleasure. He was more clever than originally thought. He hadn't rolled over and surrendered like so many captives before him. The kid was a little escape artist if given time, smart enough to plan ahead, feisty and quick. He could be violent under proper motivation. And if Bill knew this, it wasn't impossible someone else knew it too, someone in particular on his ship that needed a pawn in mutiny.

These thoughts darkened his vision. The serene sight of a sweet pale face turned traitorous. The novelty of the kid's beauty and softness quickly decayed, became an acidic residue of bitter resentment.

Such a beautiful doll...

Such a manipulative little snake...

Bill's expression dropped slowly, picking up on small twitches in the kid's body language, how he held himself with a closed off stance. Even though he stood shaking on of wobbly thin legs, he held his ground, planted and determined to not crumble. His Pine Tree looked skittish like a cornered deer, about to run at the first sign of danger. But he refuse to, misguidedly staring down that danger like a dimwit. Bill frowned, brow creasing in a hard line.

Something in that half hidden stance screamed 'guilt'. There was a fearful look on the kid's face which was reasonable given their last few hours together. Bill expected as much from him. He expected complete avoidance and fear after last night. The look of shock and unshed tears rimming brown eyes.

What didn't add up to him however was that _guilty_ shuffle, how Dipper's hands forced themselves behind his back out of sight... like they were holding something. Bill's calming fantasy of angels and pale exposed skin was set ablaze with overpowering paranoia, infecting him mind and turning him rigid.

Like the stuttering of a liar, his little Sapling failed to look innocent. Those dark chocolate eyes blinked rapidly and tried to stay focused ahead of him but couldn't. They would meet Bill's stare momentarily before flicking away to somewhere else in the room. The kid looked terribly uneasy over something he'd done, or yet to do. Bill remembered the little spit fire coming at him with a concealed knife. How close that blade had come to actually causing him serious damaged, much more than a simple scratch. Dipper had come close, closer than some men who were trained to kill.

At the time, Bill had been furious that such a thing would have slipped so easily passed his guard. How easily he could be distracted by a soft cheek and a pretty mouth. _Impressed_ was only a feeling Bill could recognize now, after many hours had passed. However, he wasn't going to let such a thing happen a second time. And if the kid thought for a minute he could do something similar again, he was only proving himself to be imbecilic and with no sense of self preservation.

Perhaps he couldn't put it passed his dear Sapling. 'Hate' fueled his blood just as much as it beat through Bill's own. The potential Dipper had, the motivation he felt, none of that should be overlooked just because the boy was frail and thin. Bill knew better than to underestimate a Pines, no matter how old or how skinny. If not now, than tomorrow. Dipper would try and try again to escape or take Bill's life. Or, God forbid, his own.

A game for years to come that would keep Bill on his toes, ready for, happy to beat submission into his little prize Sapling if necessary.

Bill clenched his teeth, jaw clicking in place with force. The lines of his face held an anger that burned just below the surface, like a volcano ready to irrupt. All he could see before him was a traitorous little wench, possibly guilty of conspiring with certain individuals on board his ship – certain tall, black haired men who should know their place if they wanted to live to see the sunset.

His mind fed him little possibilities of the two, plotting and scheming behind his back. If whether or not Dipper was being put up to this task or not... If he was being promised freedom, believing he would return home once Bill was dead or captured. They were all lies being whispered into the soft curve of his ear that would go unfulfilled. Bill hated the very idea of someone being alone with his Pine Tree all the more. That someone might have twisted his mind into these foolish behaviours. That someone would try and use his prize against him. Bill glared, trailing each little movement the kid made with a hard stare.

The kid's shoulders rose, muscle tight and on edge. A weapon perhaps, poorly hidden behind his back, held tight in shaking hands. Bill was not impressed this time. There was being clever and then there was having a death wish. Dipper should be fully aware of the consequences to his actions by now. He should know to behave better.

A pawn in the greater scheme or a willing participant, it didn't matter. Bill felt his eye twitch in irritation, annoyed by the very idea that anyone would tarnish his Sapling with ideas of supported escape or revenge. The little doll was his property now and Bill wouldn't stand for such things under his watch.

“Pine Tree,” Bill sang with a toothy grin that spread from ear to ear. “It's funny how dumb you are.”

With a power hand, Bill slammed the cabin door shut. The sound echoed through the room. Immediately Dipper flinched back, the table behind him rattling as his small body banged off the edge. The kid rocked from heal to toe, looking ready to sprint across the room in retreat. His thin chest rose and fell with quick, panicked breathes. There was fear there, in each frantic breath.

Bill still wasn't pleased. Even as the colour of those round cheeks drained, leaving nothing but stark white, he was unimpressed. He told himself the kid was acting like a sweet little lamb, shaking in his boots as if he were innocent and delicate. As if that would change anything. But it was all for show, to disguise a poorly laid plan against him once more.

With heavy, confident strides, Bill crossed the room. His boots thumped against the floor. Despite the thick layers of rugs carpeting the smooth metal, it didn't do much to muffle out the stead sound. Bill ignored the way Dipper looked elsewhere, his eyes watering with disgusting tears like a child, flinching at each heavy sound of a footfall. This wasn't his darling Sapling, only a cheap imitation meant to sway his judgment. Appeal to some sort of nonexistent sympathy or compassion Bill did not feel. It was so disrespectful, Bill felt, that he wanted to leave Dipper standing there to blubber on the floor, to cry his crocodile tears and play the fool.

Bill was not in the mood for such games. He took slow, purposeful steps forward. The gap between the two closed with no more than an arms length left. Plenty of distance for the kid to lunge with a knife or makeshift weapon. Bill stood tall, waiting for an attack now that he was in reach of the brat. This time he was expecting it, welcomed it even.

“Do you really think I'd allow this, Pine Tree?” he spoke calmly but firm, hiding most of his anger with humour and sarcasm. It was almost funny how stupid his captives could be, but this definitely took the grand prize for such behaviour. He had lost count over how often the kid would defy his orders and act up. So much for smart and clever. “I'm surprised. I _thought_ you were smarter than this. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Dipper's mouth opened and closed, wanting to speak but whatever the words he wished to say stuttered and came out as nothing but incoherent sounds. He sucked in a breath, eyes growing wider and strained. He was trying to hold himself upright and be still, but there was this growing urge to run, to get as far away as possible and fast. It must have shown in the way he tensed up, how his limbs twitched under a restricted grip. The hands behind his back found the table's edge, squeezing around the smooth wood until his knuckled turned white and became sore. Bill's eye sized him up, judging his posture and scoffed with annoyance.

“Of all the stupid ideas-You could make a stuffed bird laugh, you know that?” Bill's face lost it's cat like smile, slipping back into a hardened piece of stone, all sharp edged and stiff. A small sneer tugged on the corners of his mouth, baring the hint of white sharp teeth. “You don't learn, do you? You'd have to be a slow one to pull something like this. Which one put you up to it? I can be reasonable, if you tattle.”

Dipper's ears were ringing. His pent up nerves wanted to do nothing but block out everything Bill was saying. Every other word stuck in his head but the rest felt like a confusing jumble of sound. He shook his head, not understanding a thing. But this was all a misunderstanding, he'd only been looking through the jewellery. He wasn't a thief. However, simply saying those words felt so hard to do when he'd essentially been caught red-handed, evidence wrapped around his wrist. A high sound left his mouth as he tried again to speak.

“Give it up, Pine Tree!” Bill shouted, his anger burning.

He waited for the kid to start talking, assuming he would spill his guts immediately. Fear would get the truth out of him: what members of his crew had put him up to all this, if there were many or few, who other than Tad had been in here recently. Just one word was all he'd need to hear to know that his little Sapling was guilty of everything he already knew.

One stuttered word to try and convince Bill of his innocence. He knew it would be a lie. Tad was guilty already. Bill just needed more information to know how deep this plot went.

It did not seem possible that Tad would be working alone. There had to be more involved, and the kid would make a good pawn.

After all, Tad had been so kind as to mention, repeatedly, how much the kid needed to be disposed of. Bill's conclusion – Tad wanted evidence cleaned up. There for – the kid was guilty too, left to be taken care of by an angered pirate. Tad wouldn't even have to dirty his hands with young blood.

It felt so natural for these stray, if abrupt, thoughts to line up so perfectly. It was obvious to him now, as clear as crystal. Dipper's whimpering and shaking was nothing more than silent admissions of involvement. But his patience was running thin and the kid was still refusing to speak. Bill felt his dead eye burn, the damaged muscle twitching from tension. He growled low in his throat.

“Speak up, Pine Tree! I don't got all day!”

“I didn't-I mean...”

“You _didn't_ what – 'didn't think' I'd find out. Catch you. Hmm? Don't lie to me, you little shit.”

The hard stare left Dipper's knees weak, wanting to collapse where he stood. Every fiber of his being wanted to run and hide but his feet wouldn't move. He stood, facing down an angry pirate who looked beyond the point of reason. Dipper's face felt suddenly cold. Fear punched him in the gut hard, robbing him of logical thought.

“Now! Speak!”

A muscle moved in the pirate's arm. Dipper watched, almost as if time had slowed making every second drag out to the length of a minute, Bill's arm raised. A hand outstretching with intent to grab him. Then, something inside Dipper snapped. Stress or fear, something gave him a shove and he ran. He pushed off the small table and ran as fast as he could. Heart pounding in his ears and sweat forming on his brow. His eye fell to the side cabin's door, wanting to reach it, wishing and hoping he could barricade himself inside and never come out again.

To say he got four steps into his escape was generous. Perhaps three was more accurate before a hand grabbed the back of his shirt, stopping him abruptly mid step. His thin body was hauled backwards into a tight grip. Dipper felt a strong arm wrap around his torso, the other looping around his neck. Instinctively, his hands shot out. Nails scraped and tried to dig deep into Bill's skin. Dipper swung his arms trying to hit back against the pirate. He was so desperate he would probably bite if given the opportunity.

“You little-”

“Let me go!”

Bill's grip tighten as Dipper continued to struggle. He pulled the kid in closer, pinning him securely against his own body. Back to chest, Bill made sure to not let the wriggly little thing escape again.

“I don't have a problem with hurt you, kid!”

“Fuck you! Let go of me!” Dipper could feel the temporary strength quickly seeping out of his muscles. His body wanted to bow and bend to Bill's orders and will. But he fought against it, spine straight and proud, Dipper held his ground and tried to force his way out of Bill's arms.

They wrestled, the pirate clearly winning by being both bigger and stronger. Hands grabbed and pulled, shifting their position in ways to make the fight end faster, to strap down a swinging fist before it caused anyone harm. Dipper's whole body was practically picked up and moved across the carpet. He kicked his legs blindly.

One stray kick found a mark. Dipper's heal came back against Bill's knee. The pirate hissed in a show of pain. Pleased, he tried to do it again but missed. On the third swing he hit a shine bone. Bill dropped him back onto the floor. He was yelling and cursing, ordering Dipper to stay still. Threats were being sworn in his ear loudly. But instead of listening, Dipper struggled and ignored everything else.

He planted his feet firmly on the ground, parted and equally balanced. Pushing back into Bill's chest for a moment Dipper took a long measured breath, then shoved his whole body upwards. There was a thunk, the sick sound of bone connecting with bone as the top of Dipper's skull came in contact with the underside of Bill's jaw.

The pirate grunted, teeth knocking together. For a brief moment he was stunned, surprised by the sudden show of practical defense on the kid's part. It threw him off guard so much that his grip loosened and within that split second the thin warm body left his grasp. Bill frowned. His hand came to rub at his chin. The dull pain was already disappearing. The hit wasn't all that strong.

He watched Dipper spin on his toes. The two now stood face to face, glaring the other down with anger and alarm. Tensions was running high and Bill had to regain some level of control within himself before he strangled the brat to death before getting an answer out of him.

“Talk, kid!” Bill demanded in a clear voice. “I know what you're trying to do. You think it'd just slip by me without any notice? You think I'm blind?”

“It was an accident,” Dipper spoke loudly and without stuttering.

“An accident? Interesting... You 'accidentally' went behind my back-”

“It's not like that!” Dipper interrupted, determined to swear his innocence. He held his hands up, showing them empty and still shaking. The pale skin of his palm on display.

“I told you not to lie,” Bill warned.

His eye tracked Dipper's movements. His hands were indeed empty. The only thing to show was the old scabbing stretched over the kid's one hand but even that was looking faded and healed. There was no knife, no dangerously sharp piece of glass or any form of blunt object. In the scuffled, he didn't remember anything falling to the floor but he could have easily missed it. Checking, Bill found nothing at their feet. Nothing noticeable was out of place or moved or taken. No small guns lay dropped to the carpet. God knows Bill had hid many around the cabin and it wasn't impossible for the boy to find one. But, there was nothing. Nothing at all except a barefoot, awkwardly fidgety youth with his hands raised in submission for Bill's judgmental inspection.

“I'm not lying.”

Bill didn't back down or show any sign that he had potentially made a mistake. Although something far back in his mind told him he had miscalculated, that he jumped to a definite conclusion based on paranoia and suspicion. Still, he watched as Dipper lowered his hands slowly and made no further move to grab or harm him. He simply watched and waited, trying to figure out the situation. His anger from earlier dissipated quite quickly, a wave of anxiety taking its place. Bill didn't exactly like being wrong.

“Then speak up,” he said. There was a need to be proven wrong or right, and Bill couldn't wait much longer. The kid wrung his hands together and stalled, looking for the right words. The more Dipper nervously shuffled from toe to toe and chewed his lip, the more anxious Bill became.

His quick temper was proving all too much and he shouted at Dipper again, telling him to hurry the hell up. His hand raised high on its own accord, threatening to swing out palm flat and strike the kid. It would leave a much darker bruise on that soft cheek,guaranteed larger than the last time. He wasn't afraid to cop a mouse and leave Dipper's eye swollen shut.

Dipper closed his eyes tight, arms coming up to cross over his face. He covered his head protectively and coward in on himself. A pathetic twist to the gut left him absolutely disgusted with himself. How easily he gave into fear and intimidation. He held his breath an waited for the hit to come, for the pain and bruising.

Bill's eye watched the boy fold. Saw how the shoulders trembled. For a moment he was almost impressed the kid didn't simply run away, again. There was no tears or begging for him to stop. The brat was just going to stand there and take it like a man. For a moment only, Dipper had Bill's respect. Then his eye caught the shine of metal, the delicate little glow of light catching on gold. It almost went unnoticed, his eye wanting to dismiss the small insignificant distraction. However, it was too far out of place to go overlooked.

The little bracelet didn't look particularly familiar. It was simple, a single band of gold with no bobbles or embellishments. The kid hadn't been wearing it before and Bill hadn't given him any jewellery. Though if he had known how well gold suited the pale skin, he may have done so for no other reason than self indulgence. There was something about that soft pink skin that suited the gold bracelet. Curious, Bill reached out his hand, not to land a blow but to touch. His fingers pinched at the delicate metal and examined its simplicity.

Dipper felt the soft touch of movement along his wrist and almost jumped out of his skin. It hadn't been what he expected to feel and it left him more surprised than anything else. His head rose quickly, eyes wide and confused. When he found Bill so close, eyeing the bangle on his arm, Dipper froze. He tried to remain still and to not interrupt. He felt that if he moved, or even breathed too deeply it would earn him some form of punishment or likewise unwanted attention.

Bill played with the soft gold, passing it between his fingertips. He couldn't place such a piece, sure it had to come from somewhere but he did not recognize it. He dared not to think it a gift from some certain crew mate turn traitor, a token of bribery or payment, proposition. However, his Pine Tree didn't seem easily won over by gold. The kid didn't seem the type.

His eye snapped to Dipper's face. Big brown eyes peeked over his forearm, looking back at Bill with questioning anticipation.

“Turning thief, Pine Tree? I'm surprised at you,” Bill mused.

“I wasn't stealing it,” Dipper confessed with just a little hint of embarrassment. There was a pause before he spoke quieter. “It won't come off...”

“Wouldn't come off...” Bill repeated, looking at the thin wrist doubtfully. He couldn't see how anything could get stuck on something so small. Skeptical, Bill slid the bracelet along the wrist to take it off. The thin gold band hooked under the joint of Dipper's thumb. He hummed in thought. “Maybe you should have kept your sticky fingers out of other people's things, kid.”

“I was just looking”

“Stealing-”

“No!” Dipper puffed up his chest. “I was going to put it back.”

“Then let me help. We just need to remove your thumb. You won't even miss it-”

Dipper ripped his wrist out from Bill's loose grip. “Don't touch me, you lunatic!” he shouted. With a sudden surge of disgusted fright he shoved at Bill's chest, pushing the man back a step. He wasn't strong enough to throw the pirate back any more than a single step, barely a budge that went accepted and allowed.

Bill almost started to laugh, an amused smirk was threatening to stretch his lips but he held back. Instead he scoffed at the boy in front of him, watching how those thick curls bounced and fluffed around the kid's ears as he shook his head and almost stumbled back on his heals. Dipper's face was becoming an angry red, staining across his cheeks which had been so pale before now. It lit up a fire in his eyes that had seemed so dull and lifeless. The loveliness of the sight was easily dismissed because Bill was still angry.

The kid was either an amazing actor... Bill pulled in his brow and frowned. “Who's been in here since I left?”

“What?” Dipper blinked, thrown off by what had to seem like a random question. He looked down at his wrist and the gold wrapped around it. “What?” he repeated, confused.

Bill didn't waste time on the overly devoted acting. He reached out, hands shooting forward and grabbing at his Sapling's upper-arms. He gave him a tight squeeze and thoroughly shook him. “Who was in here with you? Who was in here? Tell me.”

Dipper grabbed hold of Bill's shirt to brace himself against the harsh manhandling. His fingers twisted in the loose fabric, pulling himself in for a sense of grounding and security.

“No one! I didn't know you left.” Dipper set his jaw, speaking through his teeth with force, wanting Bill to believe him.

The man was crazy. The way he couldn't focus and the intensity and speed that he flipped between one mood to the next, topic to topic. It was unnerving. The unpredictability made Dipper want to push against Bill's chest as hard as he could and keep as much distance between them as possible. Except, there was a warm chest under his hands, a heat radiating through thin fabric which left his fingers feeling painfully cold in comparison. He clung tight to the shirt to the point where his hands shook but he couldn't let go.

“Don't lie!” Bill snapped is teeth.

“I'm not!” Dipper dropped his head, avoiding a stray droplet of spit. “If someone was in here... it was before I woke up. I came out and...you were already gone.”

“Not even Tad?”

“Who?” Dipper had to search his memory for that name and why it was familiar. Time had passed in odd increments. Events trickled through his mind, long periods of isolation that stretched on forever then blending into panicked bursts of excitement. Who Tad was... Dipper remembered vaguely of a tall figure with dark hair.

“Tad?” he repeated the name in question, solely for confirmation that they were speaking about the same man.

“You know who I mean, Pine Tree. Spit it out – was he here?” Bill stressed each word as he spoke.

“No-why would he be here?”

“You tell me.” Bill shook the kid again and held him close, leaning down to glare into those brown eyes. Dipper had to lean away, head tilted back in order to meet Bill's stern eye. They stood, still, locked in a stalemate of confusion and absurd debate.

Bill's fingers twitched, pinching into the kid's delicate skin. The powerful grip might even bruise but if there was any discomfort there was no sign of it. Large brown eyes were watching in curiously, sparkling with an odd look that left Bill feeling intimately vulnerable, as if he had been stripped bare and examined from toe to top, like his secrets were written on his skin with bold black ink. Anger drained and left his blood like the pull of the tide. Those unassuming eyes that searched for something beyond their vision, Bill felt like the kid was seeing into his mind and it left him rattled.

Bill blinked, breaking the eye contact first. Looking elsewhere he remembered that stupid, next to worthless bracelet the brat may or may not have stolen. Whether he did or not was moot. It was stuck on his wrist now and there it would stay. Admittedly, it looked good. Bill licked his lips slowly then popped them loudly.

“Keep the gold,” he said after a minute. Bill physically dropped the kid when he let go. The whole weight of that thin body rocking back on unstable ankles. He might have fallen if there weren't a desperate tug on the man's shirt collar which pulled Dipper back in close. Bill tried not to react to this, tried to be aloof and unaffected by their closeness now that he realized it. In fact, he saw the way the kid's eyes traveled down to where his hands were fisting the old button down shirt. They widened, staring, bashfully eyeing an exposed stretch of neck, tanned skin disappearing under stretching fabric.

Bill wanted to speak but felt a dryness forming in his throat. He dared not say anything passed this point. He couldn't even move, didn't want to. If he did the spell would break and Dipper would dive across the room in fear and loathing. So, he froze letting time catch up to the boy attached to his shirt. Bill would be lying if he said that he wasn't at least a little entertained by the conflicted expression, the embarrassment overly prudish sensibilities of lower middle class. The kid even blushed like a virgin seeing skin for the first time.

Slowly, Dipper peeled his eyes off the tanned skin of Bill's throat, the way the warm chest under his fingers moved with soft breathing. He licked his lips and swallowed thickly. Awkward and all too aware of himself, he let go. His fingers uncurled and the joints seemed to ache and crack from release.

The odd scene that had fell around them was finally interrupted by the clock on the wall striking the hour. It was late morning and there were things to attend to. Bill didn't have all day to waste on harassing his little Sapling, or further interrogation. The best course of action was to keep Dipper were he'd been the past while, locked away where Bill could be confident he wouldn't escape – and for his own safety. The pirate grunted, clearing his throat and straightened his posture. In response, Dipper gingerly took a step back on his toes.

Dipper glanced over to the clock which kept ticking the second passed. He exhaled a little shaken and worse for wear. His whole body felt hot and agitated. Everything was too much for him and he needed space to breathe. With small movement, Dipper tiptoes and shuffled a few feet from Bill. He played with the bracelet around his wrist absentmindedly and turned away. He kept tugging on the thing, thinking that one of these times it would slip free and come off.

The stillness of the cabin lingered, even as the two walked around one another, avoiding eye contact. One stayed near the wall while the other wandered off. Bill took a few steps towards the adjoining cabin. He shouldn't dawdle too much longer, he knew. So, with a small cough to catch the kid's attention he did a half turn and addressed him in a dismissive manner. He waved a hand loosely in the air to excuse himself.

“Don't break anything...” he said before disappearing into the sleep cabin. The door was left open but the man stayed out of view.

Dipper watched him go from out of the corner of his eye. He stared long after he'd gone, watching the door frame for movement or Bill's reappearance. There was the sound of rustling fabric and the spray of water as the sink's tap was turned on. Dipper's face heated up, cheeks tinting an even deeper shade of red. He felt like he should be use to such a thing. It wasn't like Bill had any sense of modesty or respect for Dipper's comfort. The pirate was quite happy to wander around baring nothing but his own skin. Dipper turned his back to the open door, pretending like there wasn't a man undressing a few feet away from him. He tried to look anywhere else, just in case he catch a glimpse of Bill now. After everything, he wasn't sure how he would react.

There were feelings inside him that he wasn't accustomed to, impulses and desires. Rage, thoughts of violence, lust...

He took a small breath to calm himself. Distraction was always useful when he became to overwhelmed by an overactive imagination and his usual tendency of over analyzing every little thing. Thankfully there was a bookcase not far from where Dipper stood. Every shelf was full of old looking books, many of them thick with worn bindings. There was a thin layer of dust on many of them, indicating their low use and maintenance. Dipper ran his finger over the book spines, scooping up dust from the different textures of leather.

Atlases, star maps, books written in languages Dipper didn't recognize. He wondered if Bill had read them all, understood them all. Or if this collection was like the books in the Northwest's library, a vast range of catalogued books, encyclopedias and journals all put on display, to impress, but no one had ever actually opened. For a moment Dipper wondered if it would be alright if he read one, if he took a book off the shelf to leaf through at his leisure, that he might enjoy an afternoon on the couch instead of locked away in a quite room alone. He wouldn't 'break' the book after all.

Dipper let his fingers slip from the books and he forced himself to move along. He could only assume Bill would find some small thing wrong with the idea and ban him from touching something as harmless as a book. The man was ridiculous like that.

He ruffled his curls and pushed his bangs out of his eyes. Bill's 'crazy' felt contagious. Dipper was twitchy and restless, overwhelmed and impulsive. Too many emotions were flooding his system with no outlet. Energy pulsed through his body like electricity and he felt as though he would pop like the cork from a shaken bottle of champagne. His hands drummed against his thighs as he walked the room in a wide circle.

Dipper stopped by another table just so he would stop pacing. He bent over at the waste and rested his forearms against the smooth surface. There was a decorative stained glass oil lamp to his side and at his fingertips was a small bottle held in a stand. Dipper tapped the glass of the bottle with his fingernail. It's surface was illuminated by the lamp, cast in a glow of oranges and reds. The tiles left streaks of colour across the back of Dipper's hand in a lovely warm pattern. He leaned forward more, closer to the bottle. Inside was a miniature ship, a schooner, crafted to scale to fit inside. A small tug pulled Dipper's lip into a smile as he looked at the small ship with delight. A tiny involuntary chuckle bubbled up from his chest.

Inside the next cabin, Bill had managed to wash and find clean clothes rather quickly. Normally he took the time to ready himself, grooming his hair and making sure his clothes were in order. However, this morning had already left his nerve high strung and tense. Now he stood in a small space which smelt strongly of a certain body and a heat still lingered in the air from a night of sleep. It clouded his mind, how close he was to breaking. That thin body had been against his mere minutes ago and Bill could still feel his skin prickle with a need to feel more of it. He knew one of these times he wasn't going to be able to hold back.

He kept telling himself, 'later'. Bill was reckless and greedy but he wasn't stupid.

He combed his wet hair back, held in place by the application of wax. He took a long, slow breath before exhaling through his nose. He needed a drink, an old black rum to sooth his blood.

Out of no where came a sound he hadn't heard before. It sounded like a delicate brass bell ringing. It brought summer wind chimes to mind, light and sweet. Bill frowned, listening for the noise again but there was nothing more to be heard. He pulled on his waistcoat, doing up the double breasted vest's buttons with nimble fingers. After, he stepped forward, his cleanly polished boots hammering against the metal floor as he walked.

He left the sleep cabin and found the source immediately. Bent over a table, the curve of his body slim and relaxed, Dipper had the little ship in a bottle held up in his hands. He was examining the small model with curious, wide eyes. The kid looked so enthralled and amazed by the simple bottle, as if the world's inner workings were on displace for him to discover. The lamp beside him cast a glow against the young face, softening the already smooth skin, highlighting the high cheek bones with a stain of red and yellow. Bill leant his shoulder against the door frame, admiring the view from afar.

That wind chime like laugh rolled through the room again and the kid smiled.

Like a man pulled in by a siren's call, Bill stepped forward. His feet moved on their own, crossing the room and closing the space between him and his dear Pine Tree. His hand reached out to hover over the soft curve of Dipper's hip. He didn't allow himself to touch but he wanted to. Bill stood, deeply captivated by whatever it was that made him want Dipper so badly. Perhaps it was his softness, the warmth of his innocence. The power Bill felt as he forced Dipper to bow and crumble in submission. Whatever the reason, he couldn't ignore the lasting desire. He wanted to indulge his temptation and taste his sin for real.

Bill bent forward too, caging the kid between his body and the table. He peered over the thin shoulder, following the Dipper's eye-line to the ship in the bottle. From where he stood he too could see the fine detailing painted on the ship's haul: all black sides, a wood deck and big white sails. It was hand crafted with a real gold trim.

He moved and put his hand out under the bottle. “Be careful,” Bill breathed out over the kid's ear.

Dipper felt the breath caress his ear and he jumped, a high yelp passing his lips in honest to God surprise. His back slammed up into a solid chest that wouldn't budge. His hands fumbled clumsily and dropped the bottle by accident.

The ship safely landed in Bill's outstretched palm.

He felt Bill chuckle more than heard it, the hard chest vibrating with amusement. Dipper dropped his hands to grip at the table's edge, knuckles tensing. He stiffened, wishing he could stand upright and proper. Instead he was lewdly half bent over a small table with a man at his back, their bodies occasionally touching as the other shifted position.

Dipper swallowed, a heat spiking inside him with a familiar insanity that he associated with Bill and blamed him for. His heart beat wildly, sending that internal fire throughout his body and making him shake. Bill's breath tickled the skin of Dipper's neck, right behind his ear. The skin felt overly sensitive there.

Fingers came to touch and spread over over his small rib cage. They pressed into the dips and grooves of his side, testing the curve of muscle and bone. Dipper was positive Bill could feel his trembling and erratic pulse through his shirt, could trace it with a finger.

Dipper licked his lips and spoke in a voice he hoped wouldn't crack and give out. “I was being careful.” There was a modicum of sarcasm to his tone, an undisputed reminder that a Pines was stubborn to the marrow of their bone.

Bill smirked. He enjoyed that after everything, Dipper didn't roll over and surrender like a well trained dog. No, there was a spark in the kid, one that may reduce to a gentle ember but couldn't be snuffled out. It was endearing. Bill tilted his head to looked at him. They were so close. Dipper's cheek was inches from Bill's lips now. He let out a soft chuckle that brushed freckled skin.

“I'm sure,” he said.

Dipper watched Bill set the bottle down onto its stand. He held himself together, counting in his head the seconds between each breath, trying to rein in his heartbeat.

“Don't you have a ship to captain?” he commented, hoping it would come off as implied rejection. But Bill didn't move off him, didn't take the hint.

“You've been a pest since you got here,” Bill said with a slight growl. He leaned in a hairs length closer. “An annoyance and distraction... Disobedience little whelp.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Bill grinned ear to ear. He slid his hand over narrow hips, lightly squeezing and pulling himself closer. The thin layers of their clothes felt absent in the way they fit together. Bill didn't care if he had to persuade him to allow for their closeness. Not that it mattered if the brat wanted him or not. He could easily pin him down and take whatever he wanted. Except, his Pine Tree was responsive, pressing into Bill's touch instead of pushing away or trying to fight him off. Bill had to wonder if the kid even realized what he was doing. The sweet little shift in weight that brought a small round ass up against Bill's thigh.

Dipper bit his lip, hesitant to turn and look at Bill over his shoulder. In the matter of minutes he'd gone from dirty and dishevelled to clean shaven, fresh, with styled hair and a change of clothes. A pirate Captain, in all his glory. He felt Bill's other hand move up to touch the skin of his neck, tracing around to the where the hair curled below Dipper's ear. It was an intimate position, being held by someone as if to be kissed. The idea made Dipper unconsciously part his lips, all to eager to feel touched and wanted. A desperate need overtook his rational mind, animalistic desires and cravings. In the delusional seconds that ticked by, lost in the golden liquid of Bill's eyes, he wasn't a prisoner and Bill wasn't a pirate. He convinced himself that this was how a lover would be held.

Bill sharply tugged on the soft brown curls. A pleasant sting spread over his skin. Dipper's eyelids fluttered, wanting to close and give over to the sensation of touch and the fine line between pain and pleasure. A spontaneous whine came up out of Dipper's throat, wanton and loud.

The small noise set Bill off. He slammed his lips onto Dipper's with a head spinning force. It was intense and hard, lacking both rhythm and finesse. The mash of lips was less of a kiss and more an awkward fumble to taste the others mouth. Bill's breath held the stale remnants of alcohol, Dipper's more acidic and vacant of flavour. Even when Bill bit down on Dipper's lip with his sharply filed teeth, there was no protest. Dipper only complied, welcoming every painful nip and aggressive touch. Bill's tongue licked and prodded at Dipper's pink lips. Teeth clicked together, rough, and with too much saliva.

Bill's tongue felt hot and slick and Dipper gasped. It was an odd feeling, to have someone's tongue push into his mouth. The intrusive nature of it, the taste. Still, as strange as it was, Dipper felt his knees weaken. His eyes closed tightly, surrendering to the arousal flooding his body. Dipper couldn't help but move his tongue against Bill's slowly, shy and uncertain. He wanted to feel more.

When Bill pulled away it was sudden and without warning, exactly the same as everything the pirate did. He tugged Dipper by the hair, making him stand tall again. The moan that was ripped from Dipper was so shameless it made the boy feel as dirty as a cheap whore. He didn't even know he was capable of making a noise so horribly perverted. Dipper flushed and internally cursed himself for being this way. He told himself it was because he'd never been touched before, that these feelings were overwhelming him. None of it had to be because of an attraction to Bill...

Still, Dipper craned his neck, trying to press into the fingers at his neck. A sliver of skin along Dipper's throat became exposed, pale skin half hidden beneath blue fabric.

Bill lowered his head, nuzzling his way down the small patch. He placed a small kisses there before pinching the smooth skin between his teeth. The smooth pale canvas was begging to be bitten and marked with bruises and scratches.

Bill tried to remind himself that this was suppose to be a small taste. But he couldn't stop now, not when his little Pine Tree was so eager, not when those chocolate brown eyes looked back at him, practically black with lust.

“You ever let another man touch you?” Bill mocked, lips moving against Dipper's skin as he spoke. Of course it was meant to tease. The kid's life had been so heavily sheltered and restrictive. He was too shy to be anything other than a complete virgin. He didn't wait for a response to his question before Bill latched his mouth over Dipper's exposed skin. He gave a rough suck to the flesh beneath his lips, rolled it between his teeth and bit down.

Bill could feel Dipper shake, legs trembling and threatening to give out. Even if they did, Bill knew the kid would only fall further into his arms like a pliant doll. Short blunt nails scratched along Bill's thighs, clawing at him with need. Dipper gave a dazed, wet whine.

A sharp canine dug deep into soft pink skin. Dipper jumped and squealed, pulling away in surprise.

“Bill... I uh... Bill...” Dipper panted lightly, unable to think straight. He stuttered, finding it impossible to thread together a sentence coherently. The pirate snickered at him with a toothy grin. Cautiously Dipper touched his neck, convinced that the tenderness was caused by broken flesh. But when he pulled his hand back, there wasn't any blood on his fingertips.

Dipper had no idea what he had gotten himself into. He should stop acting like this. He should be putting an end to all this madness. This wasn't some random, handsome stranger that entice Dipper into a private moment of physical love. It was Bill Cipher, pirate, a criminal. The man had kidnapped him and shot at his uncles. Bill had threatened his life. He wasn't a good man. Except his body responded to Bill willingly, seeking more, pressing into his broad chest and invited the attention.

Dipper told himself how sick he was. His brain told him to stop, but he wouldn't.

Dipper turned. He wanted more than Bill's touch. Dipper wanted to return each little gesture. His arms raised to lay draped over strong shoulders. He petted at the ridged embroidery of Bill's vest. When he pressing harder there was the resistance of strong muscle beneath layers of clothes. Somewhere under it all was tanned skin that smelt like spiced cologne. Dipper couldn't say no to that. All he knew now was how badly he wanted Bill.

Dipper had to face the truth, he was just as depraved and insane as the pirate.

This time Dipper leaned in first, less confident but still sure of what he was after. He kissed eager and breathless. Calloused fingers were drawing long patterns over his lower back. The soothing caresses gave way to the sharp pricks of nails dragging over warmed skin, leaving behind long thin red marks. It sent thrilling sparks of pleasure up Dipper's spine and he shivered in response.

He instinctively rocked his hips against Bill's. He was just too short to find the proper amount of friction, yet still he moved and rubbed against Bill's body like a shameless whore. A deep groan was pulled from the both of them.

“Bill...” Dipper was about to say more but was cut off by the slow, rhythmic grinding of their hips. Bill help pull him closer, higher, finding a pleasing position for them both. It was a lazy speed, teasing and not enough to be fully satisfying. Dipper moaned in frustration and impatience. He dug his fingers into Bill's shoulders wanting more.

“Bastard,” he spat out like it was a horrible curse.

“Brat,” Bill replied in kind.

With Dipper clinging to him, Bill kissed him against and again. Hands pulled at clothing with a need for removal. The cool air of the room now felt overheated and stuffy. Dipper gasped for air he couldn't seem to find. A mouth was locked to his own, stealing the breath from his lungs greedily. The two stumbled back across the room, tripping over furniture and each other. Bill hit his hip off the desk corner. Dipper almost slipped on a rug.

With a heavy thud Dipper's shoulder hit the door frame which separated the two cabins. His brain supplied imagery of the two of their bodies entangled in bed, sweaty and naked. Dipper held himself up against the frame. He panted softly through his mouth, lips parted wide. The golden eye watched his mouth with an intent stare which made Dipper impulsively run his tongue over his lower lip, wetting it.

Bill fell over him, caging him between his arms possessively.

Dipper wanted to beg to be touched and taken. He would get on his knees and ask for it all, but couldn't find the words. All he knew was that he needed anything and everything done to him, however he could have it. Dipper only managed a low whimper of Bill's name.

Bill deliberately took his time stepping close, slowly and carefully rolling each button between his fingers lazily. Pale skin became exposed inch by inch as the blue shirt fell open. He took his time unwrapping his precious little treat, wanting to enjoy the sight. The pirate hungrily looking over the beautiful skin stretched over a fragile collarbone and chest. The soft white was tinted pink with heat. Bill wanted to explore this perfectly untainted body. He wanted it so desperately Bill could feel it in his bones. Unfortunately, he would have to forgo appreciating each little freckle and mole for another time.

Dipper shrugged off his shirt, tossing it aside to be left forgotten on the floor. Bill's own vest and shirt quickly followed suit.

Pressed together, their skin was a lovely contrast – one pale, the other tanned and marred in deep scars and old faded tattoos. Dipper explored each one, tracing long, thick, ugly scares with his fingers. He ran his palm flat over the toned muscles of Bill's chest and sides. He nuzzled his nose into the man's skin before placing a wet, yet almost loving kiss to a scar on his collarbone. Bill softly hummed in approval.

There was still an excess of fabric between them though. Bill's fingers slipped down to work their way into Dipper's pants, loosening the belt and fly. The trousers fell open around Dipper's hips, too loose for his frame to be held up on their own.

He felt bare and vulnerable, completely helpless as he was shoved up against the door frame. Dipper stood on display, nervous but didn't fight it. The loosened trousers were slowly pulled down over the curve of his thighs before falling completely to his ankles. Self-conscious, he tucked his head into Bill's chest, blushing right to the tops of is ears.

A gentle laugh rumbled deep in Bill's chest. He could feel it under his hands, how it vibrated from within. The laugh was only mildly condescending and Dipper frowned, responding by nipping at Bill's skin between his front teeth.

“Fuck,” the man gave a deep, rough grunt. “Keep temping me and I'll fuck your ass much harder than you can handle.”

Dipper didn't answer him. Instead, he ran his tongue over the little red mark he left on Bill's skin. God, what was he thinking... All common sense was out the window and he was lost in pure sensation that was Bill's fingers sliding down along his backside. It never dawned on him that something so senselessly primal as sex would be so overpowering. It was like nothing he had felt before.

The touch was nothing in comparison to his own. Shy, fear filled nights of pathetic attempts at touching himself, alone in the dark. Silently laying as still as possible. But with Bill, a simple touch burned his skin. With a fervent kiss, Dipper was addicted. He wanted more, to scream until his throat was sore, to pushed back onto the fingers trying to wiggle their way inside him.

“Do it then,” he said, breathless and dizzy. Dipped pawed at Bill's pants, stroking the solid line of thigh.

Above him came grunts and little orders for him to continue, words of encouragement and what to do. Dipper complied, obedient and willing. Bill's belt lay open within seconds, Dipper's hand sliding inside the fold of fabric. He touched and squeezed in ways that had Bill shaking and rutting in Dipper's hand.

Bill moaned, pleased. He nuzzled against Dipper's cheek, offering whispered praised for his behaviour, his beautiful body and what he wanted to do with it.

Dipper smiled, shivering under each touch, believing every word.

In a greedy rush, Bill pants were shoved half way done his legs, more than enough room for him. He lifted Dipper up by the hips and pressed him back into the metal frame. He held him there, nails digging into his lower back. Dipper followed his lead, perfectly happy to be bent and shifted to where Bill wanted him. His legs wrapped around a tanned torso of hot skin, crossing behind at the ankles. Closer and closer, skin on skin, Dipper begged for more with an airy voice.

The wall was cold and hard against Dipper's spine, grinding against bone with every needy shimmy his body gave. It all went unnoticed to him though. All Dipper cared about was the feeling that shot through him as Bill pushed into his body slowly, burning him from the inside out. There was a continuous pain, stretching muscle and skin. It radiated through his hips and down to his knees. It hurt and Dipper whimpered. His head fell back against the metal with a heavy thunk and he groaned loudly.

“Damn, kid,” Bill sunk his teeth into Dipper's shoulder, determined to leave behind as many marks as he could, to stake his claim and show the world of his possession of this body and the boy himself.

The tight hold the kid had on him was maddening. There was something in the way Dipper grabbed for him, kissed and held him close. It was full of false promises, wonderful little lies that made Bill feel passionately adored and needed in every way. It was foolish and childish, stupid really. In the rushed throws of passion, there were many lies but nothing was real. The only thing that mattered was the sensation of touch and climax. The sharpness of physical pain mixing beautifully with pleasure. There was no room for emotion or bonds. But then Dipper cried his name, nails scraping his back to pull him even closer, his lips seeking out Bill's for a desperate kiss, and Bill wanted to believe the illusion. For just a brief moment in time, for the duration of that one kiss, he wanted to believe that lie.

Dipper threaded his fingers through Bill's hair, occasionally getting caught on wax and knots. He panted, pressing their foreheads together. Bill's name spilled from his lips like it was a cherished blessing or a sinful curse.

The pain in his body was easing slowly, giving away to a building pressure which felt incredible. His one leg shot out, heel kicking at the opposite side of the door frame. There he could brace himself, take some of his weight from Bill. He used the little bit of leverage to roll his body, pushing down as Bill move into him. Dipper whined from the friction of their bodies pressed together and the physical strain on his muscles. It was too much. However, he didn't want to stop. He loved it, needed it. Cried for more when Bill became rougher with him.

But all good things have their end.

“Bill!” Dipper's body fully jerked and he fell forward. His muscled tightened to their limits before loosened with a snap. His pent up desire release on his stomach, hot and sticky and disgustingly perfect. Tired and strained, Dipper held onto Bill's shoulders as he continued to move inside him, rubbing him raw and sore to the point of torn and bleeding. It burned uncomfortably. Still, Dipper groaned at the feeling, encouraging Bill to keep going as hard as he could.

Bill growled in his ear through clenched teeth. Primal and deep, the aggressive behaviour made Dipper purr with excitement.

Minutes later Bill stilled inside him. Dipper could feel it, the sticky warmth filling him on the inside. It satisfied the both of them.

Dipper couldn't keep his legs wrapped around Bill's waist forever, as much as he would have liked to. But there was no longer any strength left in his body, no more energy to spare on holding himself up. His joints burned and his bones felt no more sturdy than gelatin. Thankfully, strong hands still supported his weight and kept him from falling to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs. Dipper sighed, catching his breath. A fleeting impulse passed through him and he moved to place a gentle kiss along Bill's jaw. He stopped himself right before he did so.

He couldn't bring himself to show tenderness and affection after the fact...

The two awkwardly untangled and Dipper was set back onto his own feet to stand.

And just like that, with the simple separation, Dipper regretted everything...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slang:  
"to make a stuffed bird laugh" - to say something absolutely preposterous  
"cop a mouse" - give someone a black eye the size of a mouse
> 
> ~ Thanks for still reading! You have all been so nice in your comments! You guys are the best!


	9. Chapter 9

The luxurious texture of velvet, thick and vibrant in colour. A rich shade of plum purple, rippling and folded over head where the curtains hung loose in gathers. The embroidered hem of gold thread swirled in an endless looping pattern. It looked so soft and warm to touch. A sea of purple stretched out over head like a waterfall. Dipper tipped his head back, eyes travelling along the intricately needled spiral of gold string. He traced the spiralling lines until his eye blurred, unfocused and strained.

What became of the threading was lost just out of sight to the left of his vision. He didn't bother to roll his head to the side in order to follow it further. There was a pain building in his head, in the temples by his brow. It was dull but Dipper could feel the pressure mounting, threatening to become a horrible experience. Lights sparked at the edge of his vision, flaring are he blinked his dry eyes. The pain of his on coming headache grew with each beat of his pulse.

Dipper didn't want to move even by an inch. The bed under his back was plush and curved with the weight of his own body, holding him in a tender embrace. Maybe it was because his body ached in places he'd never experienced, or because previously unused muscles now screamed and shook, but Dipper sighed and let his body relax into the mattress. He'd be moved and placed there by Bill, guided gently so he wouldn't fall as he knees knocked together. Dipper hadn't argued with him or fought back. A single sheet had been placed over his naked body. The thin sheet loosely enveloped him, dipping into his soft curves and barely hiding his form. His head had come to rest on the pillow willingly and never wanted to rise again.

He almost felt content there laying in a warm bed, limbs heavy from used and sweat still clinging to his skin. The memory of Bill's lips still tingled along his own. It was a strange thing, the taste and feel. Dipper lightly bit his lip.

He couldn't deny how good it had felt, his own eagerness. His body still buzzed with lingering pleasure through the strained throb of pain. Newly forming bruises from teeth mark, scratches from nails. The ugly purple bloom on his pale skin stood out with grotesque brightness. Dipper knew how many there would be littering his body from neck to the fat of his thighs. All thanks to Bill.

Dipper could only assume his back looked no better after repeated abuse of being knocked against metal, rows of bruises and welts running along his spine.

Cool air dance across Dipper's exposed collarbone, one particular bite mark wedged in the groove of his neck started to sting. He didn't find the sensation unpleasant or unwanted. In fact, he liked it.

Bill had made been the first to instigate but Dipper reciprocated. He had welcomed and encouraged it. Dipper had wanted and craved, pulled Bill in closer and asked for more. Every time nails dug into his skin and caused him pain, Dipper had cried in pleasure.

It was maddening. Bill was the devil.

And Dipper was a very sick man...

Dipper swallowed, dry and heavy. A guilty pull settled in his stomach, twisting and weighing him down like lead. It made breathing feet laboured and exhausting. The small, slow movements of his chest was a struggle as if someone was pressing down on him. This guilt...

From the second he was released from the pirate's arms, regret and shame flooded his system and knocked him down like a tidal wave takes a coastline. Helpless, Dipper was dragged under. He felt cold and sick to his stomach. Everything in him wanted to roll over and vomit on the floor, heave and retch until the guilt left his body, but he couldn't move. He couldn't catch a breath long enough to panic and hyperventilate. All Dipper could manage was to lay as still and as silent as the dead. His head throbbed with a dull pain as his mind whirled, scolding him, reminding him of every sin. He had never been a particularly religious man, but that did not aid in his dread and humiliation.

It did not correct anything to apologize or feel sorry for what he'd done, though Dipper was aware he should. People would call him disgusting and perverted, a brassy tramp. Dipper felt his heart sink low in his chest.

With his eyes fixed on the lush curtains above his head he tried to pretend it never happened. As if by simply avoiding the look of his skin, his denial would wash away what he'd gotten himself into. Dipper was almost resigned to playing dead, to giving into the mattress's warn comfort and to never move again. He felt at least wanted by there, wrapped loosely in Bill's scent, and the faint, now fading, taste of alcohol mixed with the salt of sweat on his tongue.

Bill had left him there, after laying him down. It had been done with a gentle touch, a soft hand. There had been no sign of resentment. Bill didn't seem unsatisfied by Dipper. Still, the pirate had left him alone instead of joining Dipper in bed, stopping only to scoop up his discarded clothes before leaving the sleeping cabin. No words passed between them, no promise of his return or any further attention. There had been just the light touch of Bill's fingers carting through his bangs once his head laid against the pillow.

Dipper assumed Bill had no more use for him, interest dwindled down to indifference. His body was dirty and broken, filthy with saliva and sweat. An uncomfortable dryness was left on his skin but he tried to ignore it. Dipper didn't want to think about the blood and fluid crusty and dry between his legs.

It was a damning thought, to want Bill never to him in bed. It made it all the more hard for Dipper to deny his sickness.

Dipper blinked, looking somewhere other than the purple curtains. His eyes were dry and strained. Despite the rising emotions he felt, no tears were forming due to sadness. Instead, his face remained passive and vacant as Dipper stared off into the nothingness above his head. He was left feeling no more value than a broken toy, discarded and unwanted by anyone. Bill didn't seem to want him any further, and why should he. Even if Dipper offered the man everything he could offer, there was no reason for Bill to continue to show interest in him. No one should want him like this, torn apart inside and our, numb through the lasting aftermath.

Dipper knew however, if Bill wanted it all again. He would gladly surrender to the harsh attention. More so, he would oblige so wholeheartedly, he'd do anything to feel it again. But if he kept his eyes turned upwards and his emotions caged, he could deny that fact.

If anyone were to find out his newly discovered preferences, no one would ever want him. He'd never find an accommodating lover. There would be no potential wife on his horizon. No girl, or man, would ever want him. Who would associate with such a perverted individual... No one of good standing or respect.

His family would be horrified with him if they ever found out. Judgmental, hateful, they would look at Dipper the same way he saw himself. He closed his eyes tightly, taking a long drawn out breath through his nose. There was no fervent beating of the heart or swell of anxiety in him, only the weight of fear and self-hatred.

His arms felt heavy and useless against the bed. The slight stretch of a finger was oddly foreign and ghostly, like the numbness had cut off his hand and it was another being currently touching his thigh. It was only a small movement at first, the wiggle of a finger. Then Dipper's hand pulled itself from the bed, sliding over the curve of thigh and slip of sheets to rest atop his leg. It lay in the snug groove below his hipbone.

Dipper couldn't feel the gross unwashed skin beneath the sheet or see the tender bruising, but he knew it was there. He picked at the sheet, wrinkling the layers and bunching it between his fingers. He drew small circles and patterns into the smooth fabric. Dipper sighed softly, remembering how it felt when Bill sunk his nails into the skin of his hip. The sharp pain spark across his skin, crackling and dancing like electricity. He'd been shocked and surprised at first but had quickly come to love each little prick and tear that broke his skin and left behind a marred swatch of colours.

He pressed the pad of his finger down against a heat patch of skin. It stung and Dipper grunted low in his throat. It hurt. Of course it hurt. Pain was a sensory deterrent. It was suppose to hurt. But when Dipper thought about Bill, of that smug devilish smile and his molten golden eye, the raw power the man carried with him with each step – Dipper wanted to whine like a cat in heat. Nothing could hurt him again, he was sure of it.

There inlay the problem. Dipper was addicted to the shear dominating force that was Bill Cipher. Now, how could he live without it. In a life where he had no say or choice, Dipper wanted to give ultimate control to this man, and he would submit happily.

Dipper's leg shook. He hadn't noticed how deep he was pressing into his bruised skin. The muscle protested further strain and wobbled under his hand. He immediately stopped, dropping his hand and letting it flop lifelessly back onto the mattress. The blood flow was starting to return to his hand. The joints now feeling fuzzy and weird. Dipper whined and tried to roll his head to the side. Even that took effort on his part. God, how badly he wanted to lay dead and forget the world.

However, the world wouldn't let his mind rest. Like well oiled gears, Dipper's mind raced in circles, bombarding him with the fact he was crazy. He'd be admitted to a hospital for the rest of his life, disowned by friends and family, alone forever.

Maybe he could hide it. He was sure that was possible. If he were to ever go home again. Because something far in the depths of his psyche told him that help was on the way, he'd be rescued and returned home. Whenever that would be... When life was back to normal and he'd been allowed into the world once more to resume his schooling, to be pressured and pushed into his career and adult life. Dipper was sure he could fake it, pretend he was content and demur. No one would ever have to know how his body craved for touch and that Bill's hands slimmed the fine line between pleasure and pain.

But life would resume, Dipper would eventually graduate and find a good job. Just as his parents wanted. A blame town house was in his future, filled with generic furniture, not too stylish to be beyond his class but not out of touch – all hand picked by his mother. He could grin and bear it, accept the nagging and shoving.

A family. A wife. He'd come home one day, climb the steps to his home – the identical copy to ever other life on his block. There would be a respectable girl sitting in the sun room, reading, waiting for him to arrive. Conversation would be polite, if not stunted and forced. It'd be tolerable and Dipper would find a way to live with that.

At night no one would ever have to know what would go through his mind, what perfectly sinful feelings he'd bring back and try to replicate on his own.

Guilt would help him bury this all inside, deep, where no one would be able to find it. Dipper would take this secret to his grave. With enough discipline and repression, he could be normal. His family could be proud of him.

But the very idea of warm, sunny mornings with a proper wife and a gentle kiss on the cheek, made stomach acid rise in Dipper's throat. He wanted to throw up.

What he wanted... Dipper didn't even know exactly what he wanted, not from life or for his future. Just for now, while he could possible have something tangible to grab onto until it was pried from his fingertips, Dipper wanted Bill. And maybe it was solely because of a physical attraction and no real emotional attachment, definitely not love or affection, still, he was everything Dipper needed.

Down to the marrow of his bone, he wanted Bill. The pirate lived in his blood, stirred his soul. Like seeing the horizon at a hundred feet up, he was exciting and beautiful.

Dipper sighed, forcing the air from his chest heavily. He was a pathetic excuse of a man.

Dipper wanted to stay wrapped up in his fantasy, surrounded by spiced cologne and Bill's strong presence. He didn't want to go back to a life of self denial and hiding. Eventually, the strain of his dry eyes were too much, the migraine pain too severe. Dipper closed his eyes and let his senses blur the rattling pines and hiss of the vent. Sleep beckoned him, urging him into a peaceful state where he could forget and escape everything. His head turned into the pillow, lips parting.

He still felt that Bill should be laying beside him under the covers.

As much as the pirate in question would have found it perfectly indulging to crawl into a nice warm bed for a some long over due rest, instead he sat behind his desk in silence. There was a continuous throb of pressure built up behind his one knee cap that he was trying to ignore. The old injury which once disabled him to walk, now long since healed, still caused some mild discomfort. A little pain was nothing these days. The swelling was easy to handle. Even the occasional wobble in his joint was manageable. His leg held his body weight fine, even the added few pounds of his Pine Tree.

Bill leaned back in his chair, bringing both feet up to rest on top of the desk, crossing his ankles in a comfortable position. The polish of his boots were slightly scuffed around the toes but still caught the light nicely, making the rich leather shine. He took a deep breath and sighed slow, undoing the top button of his shirt once more.

Admittedly, it had been a struggle for Bill to redress after letting such soft hands pull each layer away. There was still the sensation of irritation along his skin where short, blunt nails had raked over his shoulder blades. In their wake, long thing marks rose to the surface and turned red. He could feel them when he moved. His shirt would rub at the scratches and delicately burn. It was a shame to cover such pretty marks with a shirt and vest, Bill thought. Such a waste, after all the effort and care his Sapling put in to making them. Still, it had to be done.

Bill came down from his orgasmic high as if he was waking from a strange, drug induced fever dream. Those thin legs unfurled from his waist. The brushing of skin which sent shocks up his spine. Then that small body slipped off his own and put an awkward distance between them – preventable but Bill allowed it to happen. The kid looked flushed and delirious, too tired to stand and he used the wall to carry himself. Bill had reach out and held Dipper up. Long fingers curled around his arm for support, like his Pine Tree were to play the fragile damsel, about to topple to the floor. It had been a beautiful sight, pale lips turned red and swollen from attention, welts forming from broken skin. Bill had held him without a word, appreciating the sight and circumstance.

There had been a strange sense of trust in their stance, how Dipper allowed Bill to move him as he pleased. The boy was relaxed in his hands and obeyed each little nudge Bill gave him. It was foolish really, to trust a man like himself. Bill shouldn't ever be trusted, even when he was being honest. And the truth was, their fantasy had ended. They weren't lovers or even allies. They were a captive and a criminal.

Bill showed no emotion as he put Dipper to bed. The kid complied without being forced and lay still. Before leaving, Bill covered that thin body with a sheet to preserve some sense of dignity. Not that it helped. The fabric sunk into each nook and bend, forming along the boy's smooth curves. He would have been better off naked, less suggestively positioned under Bill's gaze. But there he was, looking like a freshly plucked virgin, glowing with a beautiful blushed face. It almost made the pirate smile with personal satisfaction, proud to be the one to reduce the kid to a worn out mess of bruises.

In another life Bill would have slipped under the same sheet to rest, their naked bodies pressed together to share in the afterglow. However, that was in a fantasy world. Bill had other work to attend to. As wonderful a distraction that Dipper was, he wouldn't allow any further delay. He had a screw to Captain, a first-mate to deal with and a Naval brat to swindle.

Their dalliance was nothing more than quick sex, a release of tension. And without a word, Bill left Dipper to sleep.

As innocent as the kid seemed, Bill was still not about to risk believing sweet lies. Pretty lips only spoke pretty words. He had every cause to doubt, a million reasons to assume Dipper was a liar like his uncle. A troublesome little voice filled with paranoia told him to keep the kid locked away. Bill knew better and wouldn't make any mistakes. The sleep cabin's door would remain locked and Pine Tree safely inside.

Bill rubbed his brow, annoyed that he had to go through with all these extra measures just to handle one skinny child.

Still, the look of pure pleasure on the kid's face was picturesque. So free and suggestive. Those lustful eyes could convince Bill of anything. He chuckled, feeling as though he was already wrapped around his Pine Tree's little finger.

If only Ford could see that wanton expression for himself.

That thought perked Bill's amusement.

The very idea: Ford witnessing his sweet, sheltered nephew turned into a devilish little harlot.

The boy was a shut in, coddled and babied by his overly protective uncles. To know that he had taken that innocence away, Bill was far more pleased with himself than he expected. Not just because he wanted to possess Dipper, but because of how Ford would look knowing what he'd done. Shock, repulsion, the scrunched distaste in the older man's face would be priceless. Bill could just imagine it now, clear as day.

The two men finally getting to face off as he always intended.

The setting for their last confrontation varied depending on the fantasy, this time Bill pictured Ford busting into his Captain's cabin. Murder in his eyes, seeking revenge of his own for the harm brought to his family. Gun raised, he'd greet Bill with the strained voice of a man on the edge of breaking.

Bill would merely sit back and enjoy the crumbling expression as Ford sunk into disbelieve. Because what he would find would be his nephew, less a prisoner and more a willing kept-boy. Perched on Bill's knee or cuddle into the man's lap. Pale skin on display for all to see the bites and prints left there by greedy, passionate sex. Corrupted and broken by Bill.

The last thing Ford would ever know before his death would be how his loving family was ripped apart and all his effort had been useless. Bill chuckled loudly. A smile crossed his face, all teeth and merriment.

As soon as the smile touched his face, it slipped into a thin line. A cold bitterness over took Bill's face as his thoughts were soured by Ford's memory. He opened the top desk drawer but paused, hesitant to remove the contents. Silent as if almost afraid, he stared down into the drawer for a long moment before reaching for the familiar leather bound book he kept stored inside. Bill had forced the journal's existence to the back of his mind for a while now, despite how he wanted to burn it out of spite, just so he wouldn't have to see it. Yet there it was, intact and without damage. For some reason or another, he had kept it safe. Possibly due to some sense of self-abuse and an inability to let go of old grudges. _Blasted Ford_, Bill thought.

He would spit on the old bastard's grave. Bill tossed the book onto the table in front of him. He stared long and hard at the well kept cover with displeasure. The thin journal was being propped open slightly, a few pages crumpled and dogeared from rough manhandling. Bill couldn't even find mild satisfaction over the journal's existence, the fact Ford was equally as obsessed with Bill as he was in return. There was slight satisfaction in the fact Ford was equally as obsessed with Bill as he as in return. The old man wrote a whole damn book about him. It would have been flattering if he didn't hate the old bugger as much as he did.

Bill flipped the cover back to where the journal was wedged open. Resting against the smooth pages lay the tangled silver links that formed Dipper's earring. The delicate metal caught the light and sparkled in its clean, pure silver design. It was a lovely metal and had made the boy's skin look as pale as moonlight. Such a notable contrast to how his Sapling looked in gold. Bill's gold. The warm tone draped over the pale pink, bringing it to life as if sun-kissed and hot.

With a careful touch, Bill plucked the delicate piece of jewellery from the crumpled pages and held it in his hand. He rolled the knotted chain between his thumb and finger. He admired the little links and its soft metal structure. The kid did look lovely with the chain wrapped around his ear. Bill had a pleasantly fleeting urge to returning it to that ear permanently. To hold the kid down and artfully string the links through his skin, puncturing hole after hole until each piece of metal dangled, threaded through Dipper's cartilage.

Bill closed his hand around the small earring before resting his knuckles against the desktop. He drummed his knuckles rhythmically, tapping out a small pattern in the quiet cabin. He sighed and closed his eyes, head falling back against the chair. For a moment he stayed that way, stoking the fire that burned beneath his skin. The tension slowly seeped into his muscles like rising steam, growing hotter with each passing second. His grip tighten, balling his closed fingers into a tight fist.

Finally, when Bill opened his eye, his sight fell back to Ford's journal. He was drawn to it like a magnet.

A loud breath hissed from his nose like an aggressive dog snarling a warning. Bill dropped the earring from his hand, ignoring it as it fell to the desk in a knot of chain links. That damn book taunted him by merely existing. That old bastard acted as though he was above him, some high class gentleman, making Bill look like scum in comparison. Ford declared Bill a monster, called himself a scholar. Every word, written down like gospel.

Bill jumped from his seat in one smooth movement. Feet planted on the ground, he stood, grabbing the journal as he did so. Page by page, he ripped them from the leather binding. Paper tore, stitching snapped. He grunted and hiss, enraged. Bill cursed Ford to hell and back. He wanted to scream and howl and spit fire.

Quickly the thin journal was reduced to nothing more than a backing of waxed leather and a stack of shredded paper. Bill crumpled whatever paged he could scoop up at a time. He tore them in half, then again. Torn bits floated to the floor at his feet. Bill wanted the book beyond repair. He ripped at the pages until there was nothing but confetti littering his desk.

Bill grabbed the only thing left of the journal and threw it across the room. The soft backing hit the wall gently before landing on the floor.

The sudden overwhelming flurry of anger left Bill panting for breath. His shoulders hunched forward as he stared after the book bindings. He placed his palms flat on the desk to hold himself up right. Bill sneered.

“Fuck you, Ford.”

Bill was about to sit when a sharp knock at the cabin door broken his attention, pulling him from the depths of his unbalanced mind. He blinked, staring over to where the large ornate door was firmly closed. The cabin remained still for a long moment as he stood, blankly staring from across the room.

Bill sucked in a quick breath and returned to his desk chair, letting the warmed leather hold his posture. The knock repeated when he did not respond. He looked to the mess littering his desk, scraps of ripped paper laying everywhere. Bill slid the discarded earring from the desk, discreetly slipping it into the cuff of his shirt. The rest of the mess, he used his forearm to swipe it all to the floor. There was a third knock, harder and louder than the others.

“Come in already!” Bill shouted, annoyed and firm in his command.

With a heavy thunk, the latch was pulled back and the cabin door was pushed open. Bill knew who it would be before the man entered.

The appearance of his second in command indicated that it was time to land, or that they were in that process already.

What was normally a familiar sight was now uncomfortable and suspicious. Tad took long, confident strides when he walked, though nothing was rushed. He gave odd a professional air about him but held himself casually, showing he deferred power to their Captain and was not fully in charge. Bill wanted to snort, finding that complete bullshit. Though nothing about Tad seemed out of place, there was something in the way he held himself that Bill wasn't trusting. Back tall and shouldered squared off, Tad kept his chin high as he always did. Black hair, perfectly waxed back, shirt pressed and vest clean. Tad looked more the gentleman than pirate. He stood with superior poise and a practised manner of grace that didn't belong on board a criminal ship.

Bill watched him closely, met his steady eye, looking for what it was that screamed betrayal. On the surface nothing jumped out directly at him.

With a challenged scoff, Bill sunk further into his chair. His demeanour gave off one of complete relaxation and aloof indifference. Bill gave a long dramatic show of smoothing his hair back and crossing his legs in a lounging position before waving Tad forward. He was a cool lie by trade, a seasoned gambling man, and could pretend to be unassuming. Whatever was going on in Tad's mind could be found out and pulled from him. Bill would learn the truth one way or another.

Tad stepped up to the desk, casting a look down to the scraps of paper scattered around the rug. He peaked an eyebrow. If he were going to say anything about the mess, he did not, interesting no more than baseline curiosity. Tad stepped over the scraps of paper to come up to the desk, stopping in front of Bill. For a moment he stood there, looking unimpressed by his Captain's slacking.

“We're ready for you on deck, Captain. It's time to land.”

It did not go unnoticed how strained Tad's voice was to say _Captain_. Bill nodded in acknowledgement, his hand slipping from the desk top in a lazy stretch. Once out of sight, his finger tips stopped on a closed drawer handle.

“You've handled everything so far then?” He said calmly before inquiring on a full status update on his ship and crew. Bill tugged the drawer open and without looking produced the map they would be bartering over. The tightly rolled parchment was set gingerly on the table between them, Bill's fingers dancing over the roll like piano keys.

He was only half listening to his first-mate give a full break down of their landing procedure, fulling aware already what it entailed. Instead he was watching how Tad immediately started to eye the map. Bill's fingers walked across the parchment, sliding the roll across the desk. He was amused how Tad's gaze followed. Tad was, however, subtle enough to not break concentration and kept talking. Bill appreciated this. It was good to know he chose well in his first-mate, smart, consistent, a multi-tasker. He could even appreciate that he was underhanded. All good pirates were. You almost had to respect it.

Bill's hand moved away, falling behind the desk once more. He hummed softly to show that he was in fact listening.

“No further last minute communications or telegraphs?” Bill asked.

Out of sight though, his fingers crept into the open drawer. Inch by inch they slowly moved through the contents before loosely curling around the barrel of a hand gun.

“Not recently, no. Everything it on schedule as planned. No delays by weather or other... interference,” Tad said.

“And my payment is confirmed?”

“I would assume so-”

“You would know, Tad. You've gone over the telegraphs more than anyone.”

Tad swallowed. “Yes, well. Everything we had demanded was agreed to. What they bring is another factor all together. At which point it can be counted and you will decide if we go through with the deal.”

“...what they bring...” he repeated, interested by the phrasing. It was true that some individuals like to try and skirt by with partial payment, thinking no one would do a full count until later. Skimming the top just shy of their demands always ended with far more death than ever desired by either side. Bill not wanting the extra work, and the others involved more than likely didn't want to be killed. Still, the point was, people tried. Bill just wanted to make sure this meeting was worth his time and energy. After all, he had other persons occupying his mind.

“If it puts you at ease, I will count the payment myself,” Tad generously offered.

“Will you now?” Bill's grip tightened around the gun. He wondered if Tad was solely after money now, or if it was a pleasant accompaniment to extra power.

“You will always be able to double check once we've carted it on board.”

“Sorting through containers of metal parts and coin... you can be sure I'll _double check_.”

Their small exchange paused. The two men stared each other down with curiosity painted on their face, for different reasons. Tad raised a brow but kept his thoughts to himself. The gentleman pirate was good at that, polite behaviour that hid his true intentions and choices. It irritated Bill far more than outward disagreement. He did prefer to be on the same page as his enemies, if not a step ahead. The Navy was predictable and easy to keep under foot, not needing to really be concerned with their actions. But friends made for the worse kind of enemy.

Friends knew weaknesses, knew what to expect and how to hide secrets. And while Bill knew Tad very well, the same could be said in return. Bill held the gun in his hand, keeping his finger off the trigger for now. He cocked his head to the side.

“Then I guess you will be stepping on solid ground today, Taddie boy?” Bill asked with a cheerful disposition.

“Do you need me to?” Tad asked simply. “I'm only taking inventory. That can be done below deck.”

“I like things out in the open.”

“Some one still needs to over see the loading of-”

“Couldn't agree more,” Bill interrupted. “I'll post a man down in the haul, maybe two.”

Tad watched him for a long moment. His hands folded behind his back. “Why the change in plans?”

“New client and all... I want some trusted backup. Unless you're scared of something.” Bill smiled.

“Of course not. Whatever you think is best.” He nodded with a curt dip of the chin.

Bill slapped the desk with his free hand. “I guess we shouldn't keep them waiting.” He stood quickly. Bill took the gun from the drawer and tucked it into his vest.

“It would be best, Captain.”

Tad watched in silence as Bill moved about the cabin. Quick, erratic movements that jumped from one corner of the room to the opposite. From stray storage spaces tucked behind books, furniture, and boxes, Bill produced another gun and multiple packs of bullets. He grabbed a previously discarded coat with a thick high lapel and pulled it on. Bullets were tucked away, emptied into pockets, or otherwise hidden out of sight. Packed to the seams but looking unassuming, Bill was walking bomb.

A knife was tucked into his boot. Bill wobbled on a single leg. He was favouring one foot to the other again and Tad knew it. Bill could feel him stare.

“Bum knee?” he asked, poorly keeping the judgmental snip from his tone.

Bill his his scowl, instead choosing to laugh off the comment. It was unavoidable really. He could feel the dull internal swelling of an injured joint. The pain wouldn't become crippling or even a deterrent to him, however, a visible display of weakness was not exactly desirable. And apparently, it was noticeable enough to be pointed out. Bill put his feet flat on the floor, weight distributed evenly. He shrugged as if he hadn't noticed the limp.

Bill smirked, ignoring the ache in his leg. It had been worth it, he decided. His Sapling was a hundred pounds soaking wet. He was more than willing to risk further injury for that.

“Never felt better. Still...” Bill said.

“If you say so, Bill.”

He focused on his footing, making sure to take each step evenly and firm. He brushed passed Tad, rudely giving the man a slight shove out of the way.

Bill stopped by the bookshelf, picking up an old cane that he left resting against the wood frame. The cane had a lovely black coating, no chipping around the base or scuffs, and it was topped with a sturdy silver handle. The cane clearly didn't see much use, being kept in far too good a condition. It resembled more of a fashionable accessory, used by high class types to decorate one's outfit rather than to aid in walking. Bill's use of the cane were either extreme. Occasionally it was purely fashion. As an aid, Bill could have to be in extreme pain due to foul weather pressure and overexertion. Today, his need for this particular cane fell somewhere in the middle.

He gave the cane a good swing, making a wide arc. It caused a sharp whistling sound as it cut the through the air. Not too heavy but of good weight, Bill let the cane rest on his shoulder as his fingers started to twist and spin the handle idly.

Tad looked at him with an eye of caution. “Shall we?” he asked.

Someone was eager. Bill smirked but still shrugged indifferently, never truly letting on that he was suspicious of his friend. “Yes, of course. By all means, Strange. After you.”

Bill gestured to the door dramatically, using his cane to point the way. Less than impressed, Tad rolled his eyes and stepped forward first. Before he followed, Bill scooped the map up from the table and cast a quick glance towards the closed door heading to his sleep cabin. He had preemptively latched the door, locking it tight. A necessary safety precaution in case his Pine Tree got any bright ideas about going for an extended walk while Bill was away.

It never slipped his mind how angry the boy was going to be upon his return. That round face would be creased and red, a frown deeply set in, replacing the soft angelic expression of a tired boy. Bill would have to dodge a lot of thrown items and perhaps a punch to the face. The kid could be quite violent, which was unexpected by Bill found rather endearing.

The pirate followed after his first pate closely, coming up behind his shoulder within a few steps. Before they left the cabin, Bill reached out a hand. He planted his palm against the door frame and looked at Tad. He offered up a large, self-satisfied grin which showed plenty of teeth. Hand wrapped around the cane, Bill rubbed a thumb over a small latch built into the base of the handle. He didn't press it, merely touched it, feeling the smooth metal bubble that could be pressed back into the base.

“Just in case you were ever curious, Tad. Pine Tree looks ravishing in gold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bridging chapter. It's another one of those incidences where I had to cut a chapter in half or else it would drag on forever. The next chapter will be a little more substantial. If anyone was ever interested in a visual, Bill's outfits are heavily inspired by Jacob Frye from Assassin's Creed Syndicate.
> 
> Hope everyone is doing well! Stay safe and healthy!


	10. Chapter 10

It would have been highly convenient if Bill could focus long enough to properly Captain his own ship. Unfortunately, that was far from achievable in his current state. With a firmly set sneer on his lips and a uncomfortable twitch of his dead eye, Bill kept distractedly lapping the main deck with no real purpose under hand. Irritated and impatient, he was a force to be set against, a bolder rolling top speed downhill.

He marched his way passed busy men, dead set in their order to land the airship in a timely and meticulous manner. If a bare hairline scratch was left on the ship's precious hull, there would be hell to pay. Everyone knew this. Bill cared for his ship as one might appreciate a church's stain glass windows. No harm would come to his beloved ship or heads would roll.

Today however, perhaps a scratch would slip under the radar. Bill could barely find it in his limited attention to care for such things. His focus primarily rested on the back of Tad's head as the man rushed around doing the Captain's duty in Bill's stead. There was much needed done and Bill could only stand by and watch. Watch as that perfectly combed mop of black hair went from the gas valves to the rudder wheel. Pipes hissed with the release of pressure and the whole airship gently rocked in decent.

The two had not spoke a word since leaving the Captain's quarters, only spared strange looks of confusion and silent judgment. Tad offered no commentary on the day and Bill did not interrogate his behaviour.

It was rare for Tad to meet Bill's eye with anything other than a straight face of concealed emotion. Those dark eyes had always been calm and blank. Now though, Bill could see the inner thought of a secret brewing away in the oil slick hue. While stone faced, his eyes shone with mistrust. Tad looked at him and all Bill could see was a plotting mild, focused and unwavering in whatever decisions had been made. All poor decisions, Bill thought as he rounded the deck once again.

The sight of Tad running things infuriated him, but he couldn't pull himself away from his own brooding to take the helm. Bill gripped his cane tighter wanting to take a solid swing at the man's head. It would be a satisfying outburst, to crack the fine layer of bone. Bill stilled his hand before he could do such a thing and kept the cane pressed stiffly against his shoulder. It would be a terrible shame to act too quickly and preemptively expose his suspicions.

Tad seemed to be completely oblivious to being watched, moving about like a well oiled machine between stations. He took control smoothly, easing into a role that wasn't really his – and would never be his. Bill frowned, overhearing Tad call out orders and demanding precision. The intricacies of the ship being held by someone else. It prickled his skin. Bill stepped forward, drawn to Tad's side with a strong sense of resentment. With each step he bristled like a dog, furiously territorial with sharp teeth bared. He growled low, animalistic and fierce.

Seeing his Captain approach, Tad backed away from the controls with a submissive nod. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and addressed Bill with the utmost respect straining his voice.

“Decent in progress, Captain. We will be anchored quickly when able, within minutes even.”

Bill nodded, bringing the cane from his shoulder to swing down to the floor. A silence dragged out between the two men, tense and heavy. The space filled by the muffled drone of machine and men at work. Echoes and rattled, the heavy metallic scrape of steel and hiss of the pipes. Bill took a long breath and schooled his emotions, casting a blank mask over his face. He didn't look at Tad exactly. Instead his eye passed through him, cold and steady. Bill tapped the cane against the floor with a few twists of his wrist, testing its weight as if to finally rear back and take a swing.

He could see it all play out in his mind so beautifully. The thin yet solid shaft of the cane colliding with Tad's long, slim nose. The sickening crack of collagen as it broke. A long needed deformity to the man's otherwise perfectly angled face. Thick blood, seeping out of what would be a cracked and twisted feature, crooked at all unnatural angles. Steaks of red running down Tad's face in little rivers. He would learn the hard way not to double cross Bill Cipher. However, even with such a lovely fantasy playing on his mind, all Bill did was hold Tad's gaze and nod sharply. For now, they unfortunately needed each other.

“See to it that we land quick. I want the ramps down for our departure immediately,” Bill said. “And if anything – anything at all – goes South, I want this girl in the air within minutes. I don't care if we leave a man or two behind in the process. Just see to it that it's done.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I mean it, Tad. I'll leave you on that beach if necessary. So don't test my patience and see to it that everyone is in position.” Bill tensed, voice hardening with a level of anxiety that troubled him deeply. It was a rare feeling, one that hadn't felt so strong in a long time. Strange for Bill, because he was never a particularly nervous man, far too use to rushing into all situations with an unmatched confidence and almost equal brash stupidity. But there it was, caused by something he saw deep in Tad's eyes, by something in the whirling atmosphere of his ship – something spelled disaster.

The calm before the storm, the uncomfortable stillness before a fight, Bill could feel something coming that he didn't like.

Call it an instinctual reflex or a paranoid reaction, but Bill felt hesitant for once in his life and could not place the reason. He frowned, turning to focus on the ship's controls and to at least look busy and confident. All the while trying to consider the source of these feelings. If they were solely due to his first-mate or something more. Bill's thoughts were muddy and hard to pin down. He watched watched Tad move in and out of his peripheral. There was an unknown element to his suspicions that kept him from blaming Tad fully and completely.

Bill didn't know what to make of it. It was like a warning was forming from the ether, vague and hard to decipher.

The ship rocked as it descended down, low enough that it could be anchored and secured to solid ground.

Men had been positioned inside, armed and ready in case there was a need for them. A number of them lined the hatch where the exit ramp was dropped, others lines the deck from a distance with loaded guns. No Naval officer would be making it onboard a live, should they try.

Bill saw to it that any man leaving the ship was stocked to the teeth with ammunition. Excessive but his anxiety was eased by the preparation. The feel of a knife slipped inside a sleeve. Around him men had their boots lined and pockets full, ready just in case. It made his fingers itch with a certain need. Bill was either well prepared for a fight, or a sliver away from starting one. Either way, something was going to happen.

He watched closely as Tad slipped a hand gun into the back waist of his trousers, hiding the handle with his coat. There was little doubt in Bill mind that come sundown, one of those bullets would be fired in his direction. He'd have to watch out for that, and be sure to return the favour.

Bill looked over his men prepare to step on land. They were all eager to get ashore, bodies twitching with excited energy and greedy impulses fuelled by thoughts of money and possible bloodshed.

For a moment, Bill's frown lessened and he looked vacantly across the deck area. Everything was prepared and ready for the order to depart. He took a slow breath, forcing the anxious feeling to subside. The bubbling and flip of his instincts slowly hardened into a weight, constant but able to be ignored. It sat in his gut like a stone and grounded him in reality. Bill had to tell himself he was acting impossibly foolish, giving into paranoid thoughts. He couldn't let those things stop him. He smoothed down the cuff of his overcoat, feeling where the thick fabric caught on small instruments and weapons. He was prepared for anything and would be just fine.

Briefly, his focused slipped, drifting to entirely new feelings. The uneasy, nauseating turn his body felt when his thoughts came to his Pine Tree. The very utterance of the nickname heated Bill's ears and made him shift uncomfortable from one foot to the other. No doubt by now the kid was awake, fully realized he'd been locked up again, caged and cornered. Furiously screaming threats and curses at Bill from behind closed doors.

It was a necessary course of action, to lock the boy up. Bill knew this well enough. Dipper was too curious and would probably sneak away without supervision. He'd get into trouble. Couldn't have that happening while Bill was off ship. By now, the majority of the crew had probably forgotten of Dipper's very existence and would not be exactly friendly towards a random stray prowling through the bridge.

More over, and under the current circumstance, Bill could only think of the boy being found by the Navy. Under the impossible likelihood an officer got on board... making it all the way to the Captain's cabin.

This wasn't a new worry of Bill's. He had thoughts like this before, of someone finding his dear Sapling and deciding misguidedly to play the hero. The kid would scream and play the victim, beg to be saved by some clueless officer. Bill knew he would, could see the crocodile tears in Dipper's wide eyes as he did so. It would be quite dramatic and tasteless. Bill wanted to scoff at the very idea.

Dipper wasn't a helpless victim or damsel that needed saving. He was already where he belongs. No one was going to steal what Bill had already rightfully stolen. No one was going to put their hand on his claimed property.

It filled Bill with a possessive rage that heated his blood to a boiling point. The boy belonged to him, and Dipper would have to accept that. There was no denying that fact any longer. Even if the kid escaped, if he fled across the seas, to the ends of the Earth, he knew that Bill owned him. Nothing could change that, not time, nor distance.

Bill blinked. He stood tall and let slip any thought of Dipper. He did not need his mind clouded with such things.

He cleared his throat and refocused on his men and the hatch to outside. They were all waiting for him now. Bill nodded for them to proceed.

The heavy locks that held the hatch closed were turned, the effort behind the gear fall creaking and clunked back into position. The door itself was a screech of steel on steel, resisting to be pulled back from its hold, the hinges giving with the assistance of three men. Bill inclined his head, watching with cool concentration.

The fresh air came like a bust, exploding into the stale ship's hull. It had a salty quality, smelling of seaweed and dead fish. The potent scent lingered thickly, feeling slick in one's mouth and leaving a sharp taste of brine and salt. It mixed with the warm air entering on the breeze. Bill took a deep breath of the heated air. After days of recycled air through old vents the freshness of the sea was invigorating. Although he squinted in the light, bracing himself against its harshness and strain.

“All right men!” he addressed the crew in a loud voice, stepping forward on a confident foot. “Keep her boilers hot. This won't take long.”

He waved those selected to go ashore to follow before Bill himself too the lead, stepping onto the ramp as it was lowered and secured. The metal hooks were barely latched before Bill's foot planted itself onto the flat surface. He marched ahead, determined and head high. In tow, his men followed, pressed shoulder to shoulder.

Bill walked off his ship, knowing exactly how it must look to the awaiting party: his appearance, a tall, looming figure, like a black clad daemon striding proudly out of hell. He stood in the bright sunlight, the contract of his colouring striking and aggressive. From the shine of his polished boots, to the darkened tan of his skin, he was a blot on the sunny beach. Behind him were a small wave of men, ragged, scarred and intimating to see. They took up position as his own flock of devils, flanking him on either side.

When Bill smiled, it was all sharp teeth.

Before them, set into the landscape like an unseemly stamp, was the waiting Naval party. They were an out of place sight along the otherwise vacant shore line. Pushed far enough inland that the sand was hardened with rocks and grass, away from threat of the tide, gathered handful of men bracketing a table. They waited patiently as Bill and his pirates took their time strolling across the beach. Watching with cautious expressions, looking the pirates up and down as they approached.

The ease at which Bill walked gave him plenty of time to take in the landscape, as well as size up his new client. There was far too much room, out in the open like this. Tree lines to his right and ocean to his left. An ambush wasn't impossible. There was also a fair size field of battle, should someone take the chance. However, the threat of such a thing became the least of Bill's worried when he saw the jollocks seated behind the table where their meeting was meant to take place.

It was unnecessarily stylish, set out more for the man behind it than for Bill's enjoyment. A bottle of wine was opened and a pair of glasses were waiting to be filled with expensive drink. A cloth had been placed down to keep the area clean of sand and dirt. Plates of food were set out and being picked at lazily by thick fingers.

Bill raised a brow as he approached, feeling far less impressed than he expected. The Navy brat was just that, a boy barely through his twenties who wore a self-important expression that was not yet earned. The paler of his skin and hair indicated a sheltered life indoors, far away from any real work or battle field. That perfectly pressed uniform he wore was bought, right down to his the stripes of rank. The same could be assumed for everything in the boy's life – pure privilege, brought up on rich family ties and favours. He smiled before pushing a grape into his mouth.

Bill knew that if a fight broke out here, it would be a slaughter.

He stopped in front of the table, keeping a small distance. Bill planted the cane into the sand and stood, back tall. He looked down his nose at the officer below him, the pale white fat of his cheeks looked pink and sweaty in the sunny heat. It required a little self control to hold back a scoff of disinterest with this new client. Bill was use to dealing with older, weathered military men who were war hardened. They had the decency to show respect. They were imposing and authoritative. Here, Bill honestly felt as though he could laugh.

“As I live and breathe... Captain Cipher. It's a real pleasure to finally meet you. Indeed it is,” the Navy officer greeted. His voice had a lazy drawl, pitched and twanged with an accent that seemed almost fake or forced. It was still of a cheery quality, though self-assured and cocky. The pink skin of his hot sweaty face creasing as he smiled far wider then what could be called genuine.

The parody of a man lent back in his chair, brushing his fingers over the round gold buttons of his uniform, patting down any odd wrinkle or crease that formed. Bill was less than impressed with his behaviour and remained standing despite the chair offered to him. He twisted the cane in his hand, impatiently wanting the false pleasantries to end as quickly as possible. They were, very much so, out of taste. Bill nodded in a quiet greeting before bluntly addressing him.

“Shall we get started, or am I interrupting a late lunch?”

“Not at all. It's just a light snack. Please, do join me. I've been looking forward to this. _Excited_ – to work with you, of course. Please, sit.” He waved to the empty chair the Bill still refuse to sit in. “I've heard so many stories about'cha. For a while, I almost didn't believe 'em. Yet, here you are... in the flesh.”

“Stories... Lieutenant Commander Gleeful, I'm sure you know better than to listen to silly stories.” Bill sucked in an amused breath of air that could be misinterpreted as a stiff laugh.

“True, of course you are right. I do so prefer to believe the mile long list of felonies and offences you've compiled for ya'self... It's quite the list, I must say – theft, murder, arson. Stories and gossip are one thing, but with your track record, you'd be tried as guilty without trial.”

“What can I say, I have a special kind of reputation. But truly, we're not here to discuses my criminal history...” Bill brushed off the comments, unclear if they should be taken as some ill complement or ridiculous joke. It was hard to tell with the amused titter in Gleeful's voice. And honestly, that pitched pleased tone reminded Bill far too much of a piglet who hadn't learned how to be quiet. His early assumptions of the man were not improving. Bill was keen to start their meeting, not wanting to listen to the officer's squealing for longer than necessary.

“Shall we begin then?”

“Very well,” Gleeful waved his men forward. He got right to the point. “I have your payment, if you have my map.”

Large carts of metal materials were unloaded and brought onto the beach. A few had already been pushed onto the sandy lot before Bill's arrival but there was always a dramatic to these meetings that like to take place. The slow and meticulous display of each item being offered up as barter. From where Bill was standing, he had a good view of the men struggle to push the wheeled carts through the sand, some opting to carry the heavy loads of metal worked parts and gears due to the rough terrain.

Money was always far easier to move. While heavy in coin form, paper notes had made transactions far more effective, easier to stow away and move – provided they were not counterfeit. Bill cocked his head and called for Tad's approval of their payment. One of many talents, which Bill valued highly, Tad had the ability to spot even the best counterfeit notes at an arms length. It was an unmatched skill, one he would hate to ever loose. And even through his own doubt and skepticism, Bill trusted Tad to do this job with those skills.

Bill watched in silence as Tad stepped up to inspect their payment. Those long pale fingers flicked through organized stack of notes, easily tucked into boxes for transfer. Nothing was said as his dark eyes looked at each note in scrupulous detail. His fingers tracing over the edges in search of any variant to their uniformity. It took some time to shuffle through the boxes, time Bill would have liked to kept peacefully silent. Instead, Gleeful felt the unnecessary need to speak in his high pitched voice. The majority of his words fell on deft ears due to Bill tuning him out purposefully. He found himself looking passed the men sorting through carts and boxes and watched the distant waves roll in over the beach's shore line.

The perfect blues of the water, capped white with shallow waves. The breeze brought in the smell of warm salt off the Pacific's vast stretch. If so inclined, an hour or so of travel could have Bill relaxing in Mexico where he could enjoy the view without annoyance from the Navy.

Soon enough, Tad nodded to Bill, having confirmed their bill payment. Anything more could be taken care of onboard the ship. The materials were easily scanned through for quality when received, but a final inventory would be taken care of at a later time. So, decently satisfied, Bill lazily reached into the front of his coat and produced his end of the bargain. Neatly rolled and tied, he placed the map down on the table. Bill let his fingers remain resting on the parchment.

“That's it?” Gleeful inquired, as if he had been expecting more somehow. “Well, let's see it.”

His grubby fingers reached for the finally tied strings, greedy and desperate to finally touch his precious map. Getting within an inch of Bill's hand, the pirate recoiled away in disgust.

“Lot of trouble for such a little ol' map,” Gleeful continued aloud, as if anyone was listening to him.

Bill did his best not to show disdain and to keep his face neutral in expression. This was proving to be a difficult task as he watched the map be grabbed up off the table. The strings were pulls apart roughly and the whole thing was unrolled, the edges smoothed down from their curl. The details were vibrant. Gold flaked ink glinting in the sun like little beacons. It was more art than function, scrawled patterns in a swirled fashion for a visual brilliance that meant absolutely nothing. Each little icon in the legend was pointless in its beautiful and purpose.

The coastline's thick outline. The inland and its mapped terrain. It was accurate enough, by means enough to be called a map and completely capable of being used as one. However, the finer details and routed directions were forged in such a way that only Bill knew what was true and what wasn't. Even a well trained eye would believe the meticulous plots, not seeing that they lead off route by a fraction of a degree. Bill knew with the utmost confidence that Gleeful could spend hours scouring the map, following it to the letter and never find anything. No treasure, no hideouts, no secrets, nothing.

It had been a last minute decision that Bill disclosed with no one. He smiled knowing he had made the right choice.

Still, pride was clear on his face because even he could admire the art work he'd accomplished. All those inked out co-ordinance that took hours to hand draw, lovely sketched were nothing but artistic doodles over a coastal map. He felt no remorse for fooling his client, especially now that he'd met the man. He was far from a valuable connection, so Bill did not see a point in dragging out their partnership any longer than needed.

Gleeful smiled, smug and wide, unaware that he'd been handed a forgery. He appraised the map, scanning over the details with a naive eye. The impressed look on his face was obvious. It was like he was a magpie, dumbly attracted to the shine of gold in the sunlight. And for a moment, it looked as if he would start to laugh from sheer excitement. Bill chocked it up to the deeply embedded habits of a spoiled man-child.

“Don't underestimate the simplicity. It's worth every penny,” Bill told him.

“Wouldn't doubt you for a second, Cipher. Really, I wouldn't. I heard enough 'bout your work to know I'd be getting a fine piece of quality. Lots of men have gotten rich off these here maps you sell. Real rich.” Gleeful smiled a sickeningly sweet smile. His plump face squished his nose and brought out the pink of his skin. There was an unpleasant manner in the way Gleeful smiled. His lips peeling back too wide over his white teeth to expose his wet gums.

Bill's eye twitch from irritation, feeling equally riled and insulted by Gleeful's behaviour. He didn't let on his private thoughts and spoke positively, bathing the man in a complementary tone of voice.

“And I've been repaid in kind. Out of everyone I've done business with, the Navy had been quite generous. Made up of good people, Gleeful. Good, _smart_ people.” Though honestly, Bill was debating on slicing the man from his pudgy belly to his chin. He took a slow breath and smiled back. It wasn't hard to mimic the sugary sweetness in his voice and their lie could go on for hours.

“Believe you, me,” Bill carried on. “You're going to be very, _very_ happy with what you find with this map. Probably worth more than our original pricing but, Hey! I like you, kid. I'll cut you a deal and say we're even.”

Gleeful looked up then, mulling over those words in his mind.

“'Even'... Is that so? Because this little piece of paper cost me a lot of money, Cipher,” he finally said after a drawn out minute of thought.

“Purely a one of a kind commissioned piece. There's no other like it, after all. I'm sure even you can see the value in that.”

“_Value_... I see. I see the value of a sellout pirate, easily bought by authority. In exchange, we look the other way. Yeah, I heard you could be reasonable, for a price. Your value is no small fortune.” Gleeful squinted, a skeptical glaze coming over his face. “But, do you think I'm a fool? Don't tell me we're even, Captain. Your price is far from it. You're either being uncharacteristically generous here or I'm being ripped off. Don't think for a second that I can't see through you.”

Bill had to laugh. He threw his head back and laugh aloud, starting the near by Naval officers. It was amusing, Gleeful showing a backbone. It was almost like he knew what he was doing. Bill's laugh died to a light chuckle that bordered the line of unnerving. If the kid had some practice, maybe he could grow to respect that kind of outburst. However, all he could see was some ruffled turkey feathers.

“Well then, if you don't want it, I'll take it back,” Bill said, stretching out his hand towards the table.

“No, that's alright.” Gleeful jolted forward, scrambling to collect his new precious map into his arms. He took care to roll the parchment and held it close. “Just taking all aspects into account. You can understand that. I mean, let's not pretend here. You are, after all, a pirate. Your kind isn't exactly the most trustworthy folk.”

“I'm also a business man with a high skill set. You take it at my price or leave it with me. I'm sure there are others who'd pay even more for this beauty.” Bill gave him a hard stare. There was no renegotiating his prices or terms, and Gleeful was either going to accept or loose a hand for wasting his time.

“I'll be taking it.” Gleeful assured him with a strained, nervous laugh. “You drive a hard bargain, Cipher.”

“It's nothing personal, just business.”

“Very well. A good deal.” Like any professional brown noser, Gleeful stood to shake Bill's hand. He stood proud and tall, head high like the two men were of equal standing. However, Bill looked at the outstretched hand with utter distaste. The paused, extended offer was uncomfortably long and thankfully Gleeful took the hint. He lowered his hand in favour of smoothing down the wrinkles of his uniform. He cleared his throat to break the silence and looked as though he was going to say more but Bill turned on his heels, cutting him off before he had the chance.

This meeting was over, as far as Bill was concerned. They made their exchange and payment was in their hands. The large containers were already being dragged through the sand, his own men finding just as much difficulty in moving such heavy tools and parts. Tad had already made the decision to move the money first. The man long disappeared from the beach. Bill disliked his eagerness to retreat back onto the ship when the meeting had yet to conclude. He frowned as he started the walk back over the uneven terrain.

“_Personal_... speaking of which...” Came from behind him in an all too amused tone.

It was laced with unsaid information that Bill did not want to deal with. It did not feel right in any way, as if Gleeful's intentions were to spell disaster with his next breath. Still, a stray nag of curiosity began to reel Bill in and he slowed in his steps. Peering over his shoulder, the officer was seated behind the small table again. He picked and pawed at his dishes of food before finding the time now to pour himself a generous glass of wine. There was a pleased smirk on his face, a look in his eyes that sparkled with mischievous intent.

Bill stiffened, spine tense and tall. Was this it, the cause of his instinctive dread. He had to wonder. Gleeful and Tad had been in previous contact. The messages sent between their ships were pulled to the forefront of Bill's mind. He remembered the obvious code speech and missing information from the communications. And now that Tad had gone and made himself scarce, suspicion played on Bill's nerve. He couldn't help himself.

He turned towards Gleeful and feigning disinterest as he parroted back the man's words.

“Speaking of which...” His fingers twisting the cane handle, becoming restless from the suspense. Would Gleeful propose some sort of trade for information, blackmail, declare this all to be a setup. Would his men suddenly turn on him and stab him in the back. Bill waited for him to speak further.

Gleeful smiled, believing he had some sway over Bill and the situation. It could be seen in the way he lounged in his chair, not giving any regard to his own safety, thinking his men would protect him if ever need be. It must have been a blissful ignorance for him to think that. Bill watched him closely as he relaxed further with his palm full of fresh red grapes.

“Oh, yes, silly me. You just gone and remind me of something there... Some _one_, actually.” As if this information was particularly interesting, he paused dramatically. There was nothing but silence then, to see if Bill would inquire for more. However, the pirate said nothing to Gleeful's disappointment. He made a face to show this as well, lip puffed out, brow pinched. Whatever it was he was expecting or hoping for, it wasn't going to happen. So, defeated in that sense, he gave an awkward chuckle to wave off the silence.

“See, I had the pleasure recently of meeting a man, odd fellow he was. Had a lot of things to say, all about you in fact. Told some amazing stories.” Gleeful shrugged slowly. “Can't say I believe them all. Thought they were rubbish at the time. Still, they were entertaining none the less. Apparently, if you choose to believe a rambling old man, he was an acquaintance of yours once upon a time.”

Bill was completely blindsided. His grip on the cane handle tightened, stretching the joints until they popped from the tension. Hot blood started to pump through his veins with increasingly heavy pulses. Bill could feel it hammering in his ears. Paranoia and suspicion. Anger and adrenaline. Bill swallowed the need to react, forced it down to only a dismissive tilt of the chin.

“Odd thing to bring up, Gleeful,” he said. He gave off the impression of stoic indifference when really Bill was ready to snap. His mind could only focus on one thing, his old _friend_.

“Completely relevant, I think. Because I may have information you could find highly valuable.”

Extortion.

“As you said... you didn't even believe him. What worth is there in stories from some doddery old fool? A drunk too, I'll bet. Either way, I'm not biting the reel, Gleeful.” Bill waved him off with a sharp turn of the head. The Commander was nothing to him. Bill could only grind his teeth thinking how Tad had done something like this.

Had Gleeful and Ford really cross paths, Bill did not care for how or for what purpose. He could draw his own conclusions which satisfied his anger.

The familiar tense feeling of dread ran up Bill's back. It left the fine hairs on his nape standing on end, bristled and tense.

“It could be in your best interest to-”

“I don't care,” Bill interrupted. He waved his cane, ending their meeting once more. Truly, Bill did not care for what Gleeful had to tell him. There was one particular man on his ship Bill wished to see. One who's teeth he wanted to fashion into necklace. “We're done here.”

“Shall I pass along your best regards?”

“Do so.” Bill turned quickly and began to march across the beach. Yet, he made it only a few steps before that amused voice came from behind. It was sharp, and what he said made Bill see red cloud the edge of his vision.

“And as for the little humming bird you took?”

The heels of his boots dug deep into the dirt and sand in an attempt to ground himself. He tried not to react, to not show acknowledgement or interest. But the implication was enough for him to understand. Bill wanted to swing around and strange the man's neck for even breathing a word in regards to _him_. Gleeful was a worm, no where within the realm of worthy to speak of his Sapling. The grotesque nickname, spoken in an affectionate manner.

“What are you talking about?” Bill asked, sucking in a quick breath, nostrils flaring wide. His muscles tightened and clenched, barely able to controlled his rage.

“Simply an inquiry regarding a special individual who... may no longer be in your care. Or perhaps they are still. Who's to say.” Gleeful lent forward across the table, propping an elbow onto its surface. He made a loose gesture with his fingers before resting his chin onto of them. “A concerned party begged me to ask. Your old friend, you see. I could tell you more, if you were so inclined.”

“How's about you just tell me,” Bill said in a cold tone. He took long strides back towards the table only stopping when he stood in front of Gleeful.

“Apologies, Captain, but this information is priceless. I'm quite aware of that. But, I could be persuaded-”

That was the last straw. Bill's tight grip slid around the handle of his cane. The small grooves of the rubbed along the pads of his fingers until the small bump caught on his nail. A quick press of his thumb. With an inaudible click, the button was pressed back in the handle. The casing released and separated the cane in two. Bill pulled back his arm in a wide arc. The air was cut with the sharp sound of metal.

Long and slim, the sword glinted in the sunlight, sparking off the fine edge. In one smooth motion, Bill's arm stretched out to press the very tip of the weapon to Gleeful's puffed up chest. He held himself back from pushing to blade in and let the metal snag along the thick fabric of the Naval uniform.

Bill relished in the way Gleeful sputtered, voice catching in his throat. The man would talk, or be cut to ribbons.

“No,” Bill told him simply but firm. He slowly turned the sword in his hand, letting the tip pluck away at the uniforms threads, ripping the fabric. “You're going to tell me whatever it is that Ford's too afraid to say to my face.”

“Good Lord, man!” Gleeful shrieked.

Around them on the beach, going mostly unnoticed to Bill, officers and pirate alike drew their weapons. From under coats and out of hidden pockets, there was a flurry of movement. Yet, within the span of a second, guns were raised, swords were drawn, and both sides were poised on the attack. Ready to fight given the slightest nod to advance.

The Navy outnumbered Bill's men, but that hardly mattered to them. They would still cut each one down and leave the soft sandy beach bathed in a bloody red.

“I'd start talking, piglet, before you really try my patience.”

Gleeful forced himself back in his chair, trying to escape the threat of Bill's sword but the sharp biting edge followed after him to pin him in place. He took a loud breath, gasping and wheezing as he desperately tried to not bring himself closer to the sword's tip.

“Jesus Christ Almighty! Alright,” Gleeful subsided and caved to Bill's whim easily. He swallowed heavily and looked between the reflectively polished metal and Bill's level stare. The fear for his life stamping down what little pride and power he believed he had. Instead the man crumbled like wet crepe paper and was left simpering like a scared child.

“He's coming for you. That's what he told me! He's coming. He know where to find you... and it won't matter in what condition his nephew is in, because he's determined to see you dead. We parted ways not long ago-”

“Where?”

“Vallejo. He came to see me there. Days ago by this point...”

“What for? How did he know about you?” Bill frowned, brow creasing deeply when there wasn't an immediate answer to the question. “Speak up, man!”

“He knew a head of time that I was coming to meet with you. Someone must'a told him. Still, I was asked... _paid_, rather, to give him information. Ford didn't stay with us long after that.”

Hearing that name out loud made Bill bare his teeth and hiss in anger. “Did Ford pay you off?” he spat out in a rush. Gleeful gave a short nod, yes.

“So, you thought – stupidly – that you could weasel your way into a bit more money or some form of favour by hanging this over my head. Now, that's not very nice.” Bill tsked at him and shook his head patronizingly. He forced a wide smile, stretching his grin from ear to ear. “And are you going to tell me who arranged this, or am I going to have to _persuade_ you?”

The hot pink of Gleeful's round cheeks turned a sullen ask, paling with fear. The man looked halfway between going into shock and passing out, or as if he would empty his guts all over the table at which he sat. It was hard to tell what would come first. Gleeful swallowed, hard. His Adam's apple bobbing visibly from the action.

“Alright, Cipher.” Gleeful's eyes flicked down to focus on the sword which refuse to budge from his chest. It's sharp tip pricked deeper into his coat with each heavy breath. “Please, remove that from my person and we can talk.”

“Sing like a canary, boy, or I run you through.” Bill promised, giving the sword a slight press forward. In response Gleeful gave a curt nod. He raised both hands submissively, sweaty palms out for all to see.

“Alright! Alright-alright. You win.”

There was a moment where Bill again felt taken by surprise. A loud bang rang out across the beach that brought everything to an abrupt stop. The crack of a gun, sudden and unexpected. Startled birds took flight from the near by trees, crying out into the blue afternoon sky.

Bill jumped in his own skin, feeling the rush of panic and alarm. He hadn't ordered anyone to shoot, hadn't plan for this. Had it been a trap after all. But he saw the blood, hot and thick as it oozed from the bullet wound. Small, shot from a distance. At least it looked to be. The blood spray hide the ripped hole, filled it and bubbled.

Bill froze, his composure remaining ever calm. At the end of his sword, still pinned to his chair, sat Gleeful. His eyes were wide frantically moving in their sockets. The black of his eyes were constricted to tiny pin pricks, lost in the bright blue. They bounced from Bill to the bullet wound, trying to see what had happened. A drop of red slid from his white blonde brow, running along the curs of his eyelid. It clung like a bead to translucent lashes. Gleeful tried to blink it away.

The small hole stretched with each gasp Gleeful took. The skin of his punctured cheek tearing and pulling with the loosening tension in his jaw. His mouth fell open, unsupported by the broken cheek bone.

The awareness in his expression dimmed. He gave a wet moan that gurgled in his throat. For one last breath, Gleeful lost the ability to hold his own head and lolled forward.

Bill withdrew his sword before the man could collapse.

Gleeful fell face first onto the table. The plated contents jumped from the heavy impact and scattered. Fruit rolled into the sand. The wine bottle fell over. A slow puddle of blood began to pool from under Gleeful's head, soaking through the table cloth.

Bill turned around, feeling like his movement were being held back and that time had slowed to a near stop. He could see each small motions play out around him. Men, pushed into an attack, too surprised to question what had happened, whether either side planned it, or who the bullet had been meant for. Too many hands held a variety of firearm or knife a like. The source of the original bullet was a mystery, lost in the sea of glistening metal.

Bodies ran forward, clashing in a sporadic exchange. A fight had been unleashed. Whatever peaceful breeze that came in a cross the salt water was tainted with a rain storm of bullets and the ring of steel. The tan sand was quickly stained in blotchy reds. And the first body found its resting place in the rocky boarder between the beach and the tree line.

Bill had not come for a fight today. His men had their orders. Should they choose to stay and battle to a pathetic death, that was their choice. He would not wait for them to finish.

Bill took off at a sprint across the beach. This fight was nonsensical. Bodies could fall, a whole Naval ship could sink, and he would find no pleasure in it. Blood could pool and join the rising tide and still there would be no interesting in it for him. For Bill, the only thing that mattered was returning to his ship, and getting her in the air.

Already the airship was being brought back to life. The outer mechanics kick to life, propellers spinning faster. Bill cried out above the fight, screaming out order to men he passed. A swift retreat to save their haul or be left behind.

The ramp was close. The man half blocking the hatch waiting. They were too hesitant to pull the ramp without their Captain being onboard. So they waited and watched as man by man, they followed Bill back toward the ship. Bullets kept flying. Another body fell. Bill's boot landed on the smooth metal ramp and he called for the doors to be locked.

He broken onto the ship with the speed and grace of a madman, shoving bodies out of his way panting from exertion. Psychically, he needed to be slowed down by external means. Bill ran into a support pillar. He grabbed on, out of breath, heart hammered in his chest wildly. The heel of his polished boot skidded on the flooring on the ship's landing bay. Bits of sand shook off his toe, leaving the metal extra slippery.

Bill swore quietly. With a keen eye he searched the men in the immediate vicinity. Tad was not among them. No other looked suspicious but that did not mean any one of them weren't guilty. If not all of them.

He frowned, deep with unbridgeable rage. Pushing off the pillar he too a great swing with his sword, lashing out blindly. The metal snagged a near by crew member. Skin ripped there was a pop of bone. The sword edge came away streaked with blood.

“Who the _fuck_ did that?” He hollered through the ship. His voice struck the metal walls, bouncing back at them in an amplified echo. No one stepped forward or spoke a word. They chose to remain in place, unsure and in fear. Innocent or guilty, the crew huddled in a silent crowd, watching as their captain as if he were an rabid animal.

Bill spun around, stepping over the man he'd hit. The pained whimpering were trying to be stiffed as the pirate curled tightly in on himself, hand held to his stomach. He convulsed and tensed, poorly attempting to stem the flow of blood. Bill allowed him to lay there morning the loss of a few fingers.

“I swear to fucking hell, whoever it was, you are a dead man!” Bill promised. He returned his sword to its holder. Hands clumsy from the rush of adrenaline, Bill forced the metal through deep into its cylinder casing and slapped the handle's lock into place.

His shoulders tense and every muscle in him seemed to start vibrating. Bill snarled, spitting saliva as he cried out in anger. He swung the cane like a baseball bat. The two handed grip was tight and turned his knuckles white. The cane whistled as it was propelled through the air with a dangerous speed. Men quickly stepped back to avoid being bludgeoned.

Again and again, he swung the cane around until every last bit of excess energy was used up. Bill panted and groaned low. Both arms dropped to his side. The once boiling fuel that pumped through his body simmered to a gentle seer, ever present but manageable. His mind slowly cleared and through the haze. He could tell only now that ship was gently rocking as it climbed high into the air. Soon they would be far from land, lost in the clouds. The Navy, the dead Lieutenant Commander, could begin to be a distant memory for him. Bill sighed, his chest heaving.

His next concern was to be Tad. Bill was convinced now. That two-faced motherfucker had his hands all over this ship, sneaking into other people's business and plotting his own gain. The communications, the missing records, the sudden disappearance on the beach. Bill wouldn't even be surprised if Tad was the one to fire the blasted bullet somehow. With Gleeful dead so suddenly, he hadn't been officially outed as guilty to Bill. However, it was blatantly obvious.

He ground his teeth. But what could Tad stand to gain... Did it even matter. Did chaos need a reason. Bill resolved to handle it personally.

And then there was Ford. Bill unconsciously touched his eye-patch. It was almost too perfect. Ford was riding his tail down the California coast with Tad's help. He'd kill two birds with one stone.

Bill wiped a hand over his face to rid himself of any sand and wet sea spray.

“Uh... Sir?” one of the crewman stepped forward with a hesitant posture. He looked ready to dive for cover should Bill snap at him too, but he was brave enough to speak first. He inched closer when his Captain didn't immediately try to beat his face in.

Bill was too tired for that now. He continued to dry his face on the cuff of his coat. “_What_,” he barked, sounding a lot more intimidating than he was physically able.

“You're bleeding, Captain.”

“...huh?” Bill turned to him slowly, mildly surprised to hear this. The pirate gave a small nod of his chin and the two looked at the steady drip of fresh blood running over Bill's knuckles. It seemed odd at first, almost foreign to see the small trail trickling out from under the sleeve. Bill stared for a moment, following the long line of his arm.

The heavy black material hide the staining but he could tell it was dampened. A large patch and growing still as the blood soaked the wool and looser cotton beneath. Bill flexed and turned his arm. A sharp burn sunk deep into his shoulder.

Bill mused in a low tone, dumbstruck that he was bleeding. He blinked a strand of hair from his eyes.

“Well, would you look at that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter more than once... Every draft had a different ending. But, Gideon died every time.
> 
> Thanks for reading! And thank you everyone for such amazing comments. You're all so wonderful and so sweet!!!
> 
> \-- Side note: I have plans for another story. It'd be super different from this one. And I want to wait until this one is a little closer to the end before posting chapter one. But I'm currently obsessed with the idea of voodoo witch doctor Bill. Any one besides me here for that???!!!


	11. Chapter 11

Anger was by no means an odd emotion. In general, 'anger' was an emotion that could be reserved solely for Bill, not just for his deplorable actions but for his infuriatingly aggravating being. His swearing and lazy manners, to his self-righteousness, or his disrespect and cruelty. However, none of this was why Dipper felt the way he did. Not because of harassment or force, or from a fight. Seemingly without prompt or reasoning which he understood, he was just angry.

Dipper never expected to feel this way, as if he had a right to harbour anger and resentment in his heart over something he should consider a blessing. Still, when he had first opened his eyes, greeted by the cabin's sharp lights, blurred from sleep in his eyes, he knew he was alone. The room was exactly the same as it was when he'd fallen asleep. The difference of an hour or so had changed nothing. It shouldn't have either, because Dipper hoped for nothing of his situation. Bill had left him there and had not given any implication of coming back for him, not to check on him or proposition another round of sex.

Dipper had ran a hand over his face, letting out a ragged breath into the otherwise quiet room. It sunk in slowly that he was alone. Initially, he was overcome with feelings of disappointment or regret. Telling himself to accept that Bill was not laying beside him. He even scolded himself for wanting such a thing. Quickly however, this internally directed regret became externalized anger, all due to Bill being somewhere else, leaving Dipper alone again.

Sheer selfish, bratty, entitled anger. It boiled within his veins, telling him that he should have to be alone like this. From there, Dipper had bolted upright in bed. Bill's name left him in a loud, harsh yell. Sitting up hurt him in unaccustomed places, an ache spreading from his tailbone to his knees. The bruises left scattered across his skin were sensitive and stung as they rubbed over the bed sheets. And Dipper blamed Bill for that, convinced by some strange emotional whirlwind that he shouldn't have to deal with the aftermath on his own.

Despite knowing what their relationship was and would only ever be. Dipper didn't entertain the idea that he could share anything further with Bill. They shared in a physical need. They weren't in love and would never be. Emotions shouldn't be getting involved, but the lingering need for connection manifested as the itch of his skin and the burn of a bruise. A dull throb came from his bones. To him, the only remedy for this pain was Bill's presence. It was like his body craved and demanded the contact and warmth. The subtly scent of old cologne wasn't enough for him and only made Dipper whimper with growing need. Sheets were thrown aside and Dipper stumbled out of bed.

His knees wobbled weakly under him. Despite his nakedness, Dipper scrambled to the door but found it bolted shut when he pulled on the handle. His anger had only increased. Dipper screamed, pounded a fist against the metal repeatedly. He spat out a flurry of curses and shouted as loud as he could but Bill would not answer. The pirate was gone. Apparently off doing whatever work he did when he wasn't tormenting Dipper.

How dare he, Dipper swore. He felt like a caged animal while Bill casually decided to abandon him for hours on end. It was infuriating and he felt a surge of jealousy emit from his chest. He wanted to keep screaming, to kick and bite.

So, he did. Dipper let the anger flow through his body. The mindless bustle of it all. He upturned the bed, grabbing at the sheets and pulled, tossed and thrown hazardously across the room. Next came the pillows – thrown at the door. He grabbed a nearby box and chucked it against a wall, not caring when it smacked loudly and broke open. The contents spilled out on the floor. Dipper kicked them about.

He pulled open drawers, turned over cases and tried his damnedest to break something. A multitude of curses fell from his lips as he tore the room apart like a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum.

Dipper panted having tired himself out quickly. Hands clinging to the bed curtains with every intention of yanking them from their hooks, he stopped. He stood, looking over the mess he made. His lips parted with laboured breath. The small scene of destruction and chaos did bring some sense of pleasure. It satisfied a part of him that demanded he be a little selfish and uppity for once in his life. He dropped his hands to his sides and sighed.

He was indeed a candle with a short wick. The immense anger he'd felt had simmered down to a gentle bubble, a small tension in his muscles, instead of the all encompassing chaotic tussle which overtook him so. Silently, Dipper stepped over the mess on the floor, taking slow and methodical movements to get to the sink. He took a sip of water from the tap to calm himself before trying to clean himself. There was no possibly way to do so that wouldn't cause further mess but he was far passed caring about that, or about his modesty as he wiped his naked body down in long stretched of his limbs.

The cold air prickled at his wet skin. Deciding he did not want to remain naked and cold forever, he started to shuffled through the piles left on the floor in search of his clothes. He'd done a good job at throwing things about because now Dipper couldn't find anything, not his pants or blue shirt. He had a feeling the shirt had been actually tossed somewhere outside the sleeping cabin and he would not be seeing it any time soon.

It was a frustrating search, one given up quite quickly. He found the short parts given to him by Bill previously. And though they had been once damp with Dipper's sweat, enough time had passed to leave the spoiled fabric dry to the touch. However wrinkled terribly, Dipper pulled them on, accepting them as the best possible option. He huffed still, hating the feel of worn clothes on his sensitive skin.

Without his shirt, Dipper took the liberty of helping himself to Bill's wardrobe in search for a fresh one. If he had come when called, Dipper wouldn't have had to trash the room and replace his shirt. So, in a way, Bill owed him this. Infallible logic, really. Dipper knelt over the pile, eyeing the mixture of shirts, vests, waste-coats and pants. He grabbed the first shirt he saw and pulled it on.

It was too big but loose and buttoned up with no collar. The fabric held that wonderful smell of wood and cologne that he'd become addicted to so quickly. Dipper didn't even mind that it was bright yellow in colour. He did up the buttons to his collar and rolled the baggy sleeve to his elbows.

Once dressed, he sat on the unmade bed to wait for Bill. Idly he plucked at mattress threads or spun the bracelet stuck around his wrist.

As he waited, his anger came and receded like the tide, building when ever he thought of how long it was taking, but lessening when he distracted himself and loss track of time. He plucked apart the mattress seams with his nails. The little act of destruction felt constructive in a way. Dipper wondered if this was how Bill felt whenever he took his unchecked anger out on something, or someone.

It was hard to tell how long he waited. It probably didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Dipper had no where else to be and Bill had to return eventually.

When he did, he wasn't about to be spared Dipper's sharp tongue.

He was eventually brought out of his own thoughts when he heard loud noises coming from the next room, a hurried burst of bangs and clatter. The bolt to the main cabin slamming closed, something being tossed across the floor, metal clattering against metal. Dipper got to his feet as the adjoining door was pulled back. The door was shoved open and Dipper moved, trying to be the first thing Bill saw when he entered. He drew in a breath ready for there to be a fight, verbal or otherwise.

“Bill-” Dipper started to yell but the pirate breezed passed him in the most dismissive of manners. Their eyes never met and Bill's back was to him in a split second. It was like Dipper was invisible, the way Bill completely and utterly ignored him.

Bill pushed through the small cabin, not fully registering the mess on the floor. Distracted, he struggled one handed to strip off his clothes layer by layer and let them drop to the floor at his feet. The other tightly held an open bottle of some shade of alcohol, clear and sloshing inside the bottle. Piece by piece Bill stripped to the waist in a mad hurry.

“Bill!” Dipper tried again, annoyed that he would be so forgotten. He would have said more if it weren't for the smear of red that coated Bill's upper arm. Dipper's mouth went try as he saw the fabric pulled away, rubbing the wet smear down Bill's arm from wound to elbow. The skin looked raw and swollen, cut open to bleed freely at a dangerous rate. Dipper cursed under his breath before taking a shaky step forward. He subconsciously reached out a comforting hand but retracted it quickly, not wanting to touch.

“Oh-God, Bill...” Dipper sputtered, unsure of what to do. Any sense of anger or bitterness completely vanished from him, draining his system to leave a light, dizzying, state behind.

He blinked, feeling a heat in his ears. In small amounts, the sight of blood was manageable. A paper cut or even a bleeding nose, he could handle that. Easily, he could see and touch, clean and bandage. But this, seeing so much blood that it ran in thick lines down Bill's tanned skin made Dipper want to curl in on himself, to bend at the waste and vomit where he stood.

Little black spots dancing in his eyes but still Dipper couldn't keep from watching Bill messily clean his arm. He poured at least half as much alcohol over the open wound than he drank. Bill hissed through clenched teeth as the alcohol washed the blood over his arm. The thick red diluted to a watery pink. It all puddled on the floor as liquid dripped from Bill's skin. Dipper was knocked back. He felt genuine concern as Bill tried to slapdash a bandage around his arm.

Trying to help Dipper rushed forward, climbing over a pile of clothes to stand closer by. The sharp smell of alcohol was intense and clouded the air. It took Dipper's breath away and made him cough into the back of his wrist. Fighting through a breath he went to say Bill's name in hopes of getting his attention, and reached out a hand to softly touch the long plane of Bill's back where it would not hurt him.

In the rush, drowned out by the pain and pump of adrenaline, Bill hadn't even spared Dipper a thought. He hadn't even noticed him standing right behind his shoulder let alone that he was still in the room at all. Though when Bill felt fingertips grave over the skin below his shoulder blade, he reacted on instinct. He spun around, taking an aggressive stance out of heightened self-preservation. Injured arm be damned, his free hand shot out to grab at who ever it was that dared come so close to him. Bill's hand clamped around Dipper's throat, squeezing tightly as he held the boy, pushing him back to an arms length.

He could feel the gasp Dipper made as it left him. The muscles under his palm quivered and shook with hindered breath. A panicked heat rolled off Dipper's skin, soaking into Bill's hand. He blinked, dumbly staring at the pink face in front of him as if he didn't recognize him.

His hand was grabbed, small, thin fingers trying to pry open his grip. Nail scratched and bit into the backs of his hand, leaving behind curved white imprinted. Dipper croaked Bill's name, gasping for what little air he could suck back.

Bill let go. His fingers recoiled, wrenched back like he'd been burned. He almost jumped in surprise but held himself still. Guilt sunk into Bill's gut and he felt the colour drain from his face in shock and shame. He watched Dipper's face pearl with a sheer layer of sweat. Those big brown eyes stared back, confused but accusative. For once, Bill truly regretted his actions. He hadn't meant to scare or hurt the kid. He didn't know he was there. Somehow, in his rush, Bill had simply forgotten.

He staggered back a foot, ready to turn away and pretend it never happened. If only the kid could go long with such a plan. Bill took a swig of vodka from the bottle in his hand and let the sharp alcohol burn his molars as it sat in his mouth before swallowing.

The two stared for a long moment – Bill at the wall, and Dipper at Bill.

An awkward silence made the atmosphere all the more unbearable. Bill winced over the uncomfortable sting in his arm but compensated by taking another drink of vodka.

Dipper blinked, lashes fluttering delicately against his cheeks. He had been taken aback by Bill but he wasn't afraid, not really. To himself, Dipper made the excuse for Bill. That he had been startled and in pain, like a scared or injured animal, lashing out to keep a distance. Dipper swallowed heavily and took a few quick breathes. His eye eventually drifted lower and fell away from Bill's face. He came to stare at the lazy blood trickle of blood along Bill's arm. The wound now irritated by the sudden movement and undoing the haphazard bandage.

It ran slow, thinning out over its trek down his arm. It was easier for Dipper to see it so thinned out and small. Still, Bill couldn't leave the wound open like that. Gathering what little courage he could muster Dipper stuttered out softly but determined.

“Let me take a look at that,” he pushed his rolled sleeve further up his arms and reached for Bill's again. Before he could even lightly grasp Bill's wrist it was pulled away. “Bill, let me look at it. You're bleeding.”

“Oh, really? I hadn't noticed,” Bill snapped, irritated and loud. “Bugger off, kid. I know how to wrap a fucking bandage.”

“You need that stitched. It's not going to stop bleeding just from a bandage.”

Dipper forced himself forward and took a firm hold of Bill's hand. Bill in turn stood his ground, looking at Dipper like he was about to throw him across the room. He raised a finger and pointed at him in warning. The bottle of vodka sloshed between them.

“It's not that bad. You worry like a little girl,” he said. “Now, let go.”

“No.” Dipper wasn't backing down just because Bill wanted to be a bully, nor was he going to let him bleed everywhere. He planted his palm in the centre of Bill's chest and shoved him back against the sink. “Drink if you want, but shut up and let me stitch your arm.”

He was sure there had to be something, a needle, somewhere. Dipper had torn through the room and upturned enough boxes that he remembered seeing Bill's shaving kit stowed under the sink. While he knelt down to have a look, Bill grumbled around the vodka bottle, cursing at Dipper.

“What do you know about stitches anyway?” he asked.

Dipper wasn't overly pleased with his findings. There were scissors and a straight razor. Even a small bundle of fresh bandages. However, not what he was looking for. He lightly smacked Bill in the leg and asked if there were needles and thread hiding somewhere in the room. Bill shrugged and leaned against the sink in a low slouch.

“Well, maybe there was. But _someone_ seemed to have made a mess, so good luck finding anything!” Bill threw his arms open, finally getting a chance to take in the state of the cabin. “Pine Tree, what the fuck did you do?”

“Nothing,” Dipper defended. “Bill, just tell me where you would normally keep stuff like that.”

With an irritated sounding sigh, Bill kicked the toe of his boot against another box close to where Dipper was looking. He wasn't necessarily helping himself by hiding anything. It was easier for him to just accept the help. Dipper wished he would.

He flipped open the box and grabbed whatever he could get his hands on. Pretty quick, Dipper had an arm full of an excess of thread spools and a few needles. He desperately tried to keep the nervous look from his face. However, he was sure it showed. It wasn't even reassuring that Bill allowed him to pull him to the floor. He didn't put up a fight, not physically anyway. Bill just mumbled under his breath like a child who couldn't have things his way. He offered Dipper his injured arm and the sight made Dipper want to heave.

He turned away so he could breathe. It took a second but he did so. Dipper told himself it was going to be just fine. He plucked a questionably clean sock off the floor. Bill watched him curiously as he tied the wool sock tightly around the injured arm to help lesson blood flow.

In his head, Dipper was walking himself through how to give someone a stitch. Step for step as written in a medical text. It was easy enough, when read in a book or when instructed by a professor. He had even administered one before on a man in town who worked in the junk yard. A nail had gone through that man's thumb. He had been shaky and a bit unsure of himself but he was able to stomach it. This was unfortunately very different.

The area was coated in both fresh and dried blood, smudged from the shirt Bill had worn and looked very tender to touch. He tried to be careful. The wound itself looked not too terribly deep, only jaggedly ripped open. He was grateful it wasn't much deeper. The muscle could have been torn, or the bone fractured. That would have been a whole other world of trouble that Dipper couldn't mend. A gently as he could, Dipper washed off the excess blood, trying not to look directly at it. He dabbed and wiped the area, happy to see that the blood was less quick to surface. Bill arm was mostly clean again. Dipper had him hold the wash rag to the would while he threaded the needle. Sanitizing the instrument was interesting. He dipped it into the vodka, much to Bill's protest.

Dipper cross his heart and hope for the best. But when it came to actually starting, the colour drained from is face. Needle poised, Dipper choked.

He couldn't move besides an uncontrollable tremor in his hands. The needle almost slipped from his fingers completely. Dipper wet his lips and swallowed with such force it felt like he was trying to down his own tongue. He could do this. He'd done it before, but he sat paralyzed with a sickening fear. The black spots were returning to his eyes. This time a burning heat was rising up his back. He knew this feeling too well. If he didn't catch his breath, he was sure to faint.

“Kid... Are you feeling alright there? Want me to do it for you?” Bill teased, but his words fell on deaf ears. Dipper looked seconds away from collapsing. That soft pink face was far too white. A bead of sweat rolled from under his bangs and along his temple. Bill leaned forward trying to catch Dipper's eye. He said his name loudly and snapped his fingers. Dipper jumped and looked up at him.

Bill huffed over a short laugh. He waited but still Dipper didn't move to stitch his arm, or to do much of anything. “Well? Are you going to let it stay this way or are you going to actually sew it up?”

“Sorry... I can do this. I just... Blood makes me sick,” he stammered.

“You're kidding me...” Bill clicked his tongue. He eyed the kid up, completely convinced Dipper was about to pass out across his lap.

“Give me a second...” Dipper took a deep breath and held onto Bill's arm, readying himself. Bill drops the rag from his arm.

Dipper held the needle to the broken flap of skin and once again froze. He stared, wide eyed at the sharp tip of the needle. Knowing exactly how it feels when it slides through skin, the thickness and resistance of it. And his hands were shaking, to continue like this would cause more damage than wrapping Bill's arm up and letting it heal that way. Dipper almost lost his grip on the needle, and if he held on tighter he was sure it would bend out of shape.

Then, Bill chose a time like this to mock him and make him feel small and pathetic, just like his professors did at school.

“Do you even know what you're doing?” Bill's voice was skeptical and sharp.

“Yes!” Dipped said back, firmly. His voice broken, hiking up an octave like an adolescent. It was such an embarrassing response to fear, to shake like a leaf. “I've done this before. I know what I'm doing.”

“Then get on with it.”

“Fine!” Dipper did a terrible thing then. He closed his eyes and pressed the needle into Bill's skin. The arm in his grip jolted and Bill hissed. Dipper immediately let go, almost falling backward as he jumped.

“Fuck! I'm sorry,” he said.

“Blood Christ! You said you knew what you were doing! If I wanted a shoddy patch job, I'd go see the ship's sad excuse for a doctor.”

“I'm sorry.” Dipper repeated it over and over. He trembled, looking to be on the verge of tears.

It made Bill groan. He hated that snivelling crap. He wanted to yell further and call Dipper a child for the pathetic teary eyed look. However, he was sure it would only cause him to cry more wet, gross tears. Bill ground his teeth together and tried to ignore that there was a needle poking through his skin as he reached out and touched Dipper's knee. His face didn't read supportive or warm. Instead, Bill looked in pain and immensely pissed off. Still, he was able to seethe through his teeth and say,

“Don't apologize.” A swear and an insult was on the tip of his tongue but Bill swallowed it down for his own selfish desire to have these stitches over and done with. He continued on and said, in what he hoped would be taken as reassurance, “I'm fine... Take your time... and don't close your eyes.”

Dipper whined around a scared sob. He nodded and sat forward on his knees. Even though his fingers still shook, he took hold of the needle again. Bill gave his leg a small comforting squeeze and Dipper was able to guide the needle out the other side of the skin.

His gut twitched and turned but he kept it down. Dipper wiped the needle dry and continued on to make the first square-knot. Each time the needle poked through skin he hated how it looked and felt under his hands, the resistance and give of flesh, followed by new blood. He must have been gentler on the second hole, or Bill was faking it, because he wasn't swearing at him this time or making any further sounds of pain. Dipper wiped the needle dry again and dared a look up to Bill's face. He seemed stoic, quietly staring off at the wall behind Dipper's head. He drank some more vodka.

“What happened?” Dipper asked, turning his attention back down to his stitching. His hands weren't shaking as bad now and he could hold a grip to the needle without fear of losing it. The question hung in the air. He didn't expect Bill to answer him, not as the minutes of silence dragged on. But just as it seemed they would let it go, Bill pulled a loose smile and half shrugged on his good side.

“Just some stray bullet getting friendly.”

Dipper looked back up and met his eye. “You're lucky it didn't get too friendly.”

“I've been shot before. This ain't the first time. Definitely not the last.” There was blatant honesty in that, complete acceptance that at any moment he could have someone trying to take his life. He was probably right to thinking that way. Bill didn't deny that he had many enemies. There had been no doubt dozens of attempts on his life, though he couldn't bother to actually count them all.

So far, he was still around, alive and kicking. If tomorrow was his last, however it happened, Bill wouldn't go out gracelessly and submissive.

Thinking of death while fixed on a young man like Dipper didn't sit quite well with Bill. It nagged at the back of his mind, filled with poor taste and disapproval. The idea of death, the finality of it all, didn't suit the round face that stared up at him. His big eyes held a look of worship and awe. Terribly placed on Bill, indeed.

The kid was naive and small in build, easily expendable and damaged, but death didn't suit him. When compared to the idea of death, it somehow made Dipper's face seem all the more young and innocent, even though he may be a young adult. The soft skin lacked worldly experience, didn't hold deep set lines gained from hard work and crushed dreams. Dipper was worth protecting, even if it was just so Bill could preserve that look of childish admiration that he was giving him right then. He'd take a bullet for that.

Bill cleared his throat. “Where did you learn to sew, Pine Tree? Tailor shop?”

“Medical student.”

Bill barked out a laugh.

“I am,” Dipper said, more than a little insulted. It may not have been his choice and he couldn't even say he was particularly good at it, but it was hard work and he took that seriously. “I'm-... I was going to school to be a doctor.”

“Wouldn't have guessed,” Bill offered up.

“What do you mean?”

“You don't seem like the type, to be a doctor. You're not serious enough, or crazy. They're all mad scientists at their core. Aging eggheads... too eager to play God.” Bill lips scrunched into a grimace over another needle prick. Dipper smirked just a little.

“You can take a bullet but a needle hurts you?” he teased with an amused tone. Maybe it was the vodka but Bill didn't get upset by the jest. Instead, Dipper watched him smile right back.

“You don't have enough time to react to the pain of getting shot,” he pointed out. “However, I can feel you slowly pushing a needle through my skin. It burns. And your hands are still shaking.”

“Sorry...” Dipper tied off another stitch. He sat back to admire his work. They weren't the neatest of stitches or the most uniform. The thread was now red with Bill's blood and the either side of the wound was puffy and irritated. There was definitely be permanent scaring left on Bill's arm from this. Dipper was both apologetic that he couldn't have done a better job, but also strangely glad that there would be a mark left behind. It would be like a reminder, a memory of himself, to prove he once existed.

“So, if I don't seem like the _type_ to be a doctor,” Dipper said slowly. “What would you think I am?”

“Hmm? Why would I care.” Bill honestly didn't. He also hadn't ever thought about it until now. He looked Dipper over from his hunched position on the floor. The kid's hands were red with Bill's blood and it was in a weird way a good look for him. But still, not a doctor. “I don't know. Something smart. A scholar. A professor of math perhaps, or something equally as clever. An 'engineer' like your uncle...” The last bit came out bitter and sarcastic.

Dipper nodded and tried to carefully choose his next words. “I grew up wanting to be just like him,” he said. “When I was little and he'd come visit us, he always seemed above everything. He was smarter than everyone, impossible to impress, nerves of steel.”

“A self-gratifying bastard who's stubbornness and ego rivals none,” Bill interrupted.

Dipper sat back, a cold expression sliding over his face in an instant. His voice raised in anger. “He's a good man.”

“He's a liar and a good cheat! Trust me, Pine Tree, you don't know your great uncle at all.”

“Then enlighten me, Bill. Who is he?”

“Maybe we'll have him tell you himself,” Bill said, feeling the mood shift to something far more bitter and unpleasant. It was his own fault for letting this happen. He watched Dipper tilt his head.

“Ford's coming for me, isn't he?” he asked, a little baffled.

Bill didn't answer that question and wouldn't. Instead, he clicked his tongue and shot a look to his arm to criticize the work done. “Finish up. I need a drink.”

Dipper frowned, wanting to argue. “You have a drink,” he bit out, doing as told despite himself. He tied off the last knot tightly. The string was cut and the stitched were complete. A fresh gauze was wrapped around the thick column of Bill's upper arm to catch any slow blood drip that found its way to the surface. The gauze wasn't even tied off before Bill was pulling the makeshift tourniquet off and moving to stand.

“A stronger drink.” Bill finished tightening the bandage wrap himself, tugging it with his teeth. He turned away after that to walk out of the cabin. “I'll fix you up a drink too, Princess. Come on.”

Dipper watched him strut from the room like Bill was totally unaffected by his alcohol consumption or blood loss. It was a worrying thing. Adrenaline would only take Bill so far. Dipper hated to think of what would happen when he finally crashed. He pulled himself to his feet, using the sink to stead his still shaking legs. Quickly he washed the blood from his fingers, only happy when he saw the bright red turn pink under the running water. Dipper let out an uneven breath that he'd been holding. There was still a stressed heat to his skin and a dampness that clung to his neck, gluing the soft curls down behind his ears.

Shock clung to him still, weighing in his chest heavily. Maybe Bill had a steady method to his drinking, to ease the nerves and take the edge off the pain. A drink, for once, sounded like the best thing he could be offered. Dipper turned off the water and patted his hands dry against his thighs. He left the sleep cabin to find Bill setting up quite the display on his desk. Dipper approached with caution, watching with curiosity to what Bill was doing.

Two short glasses as been set out, slotted spoons resting across their rims. One each spoon sat a single sugar cube. Dipper wasn't completely sheltered and ignorant, not with an uncle like Stan. He recognized the set up even before Bill popped open the bottle on the desk next to him. Absinthe was one of Stan's favour drinks, though it was far too expensive to get in their neck of the woods easily. So the alcohol was reserved special for holidays, much to Stan's immense disappointment. Dipper had never actually tasted it before but was very familiar with its colour and spicy smell.

Dipper watched over Bill's shoulder. The bottle was well drunk, the vivid green liquid inside only filling the bottom third. The label was also warn. Its fancy French calligraphy was rubbed to a faded mute tone which made it hard to read or see the brand's logo. Still, Dipper was very keen to watch. Stan had always shooed them from the room while he drag himself under the table. The bottle was opened and Dipper was given a nose full of black licorice and anise. It was warm and rich, pleasantly sparking old memories in him. Dipper liked it.

With a very steady hand Bill kept the flow of alcohol as a consistently slow stream. He poured it over the sugar cubes, letting them dissolve and drip through the slotted spoon. Each glass held no more than an ounce before Bill stopped. The absinthe was diluted with fresh water from a flask. Its bright colour clouding to a milky, pastel green. The excess sugar melted away under the flow of water. Bill set the spoons aside, running a thumb over the sugary sludge stuck between the slots. It gathered on his the pad of his thumb.

“Ever drank absinthe before, Pine Tree?” he asked.

Dipper shook his head and answered with a simple, no. Bill chuckled and turned to him. He reached his hand out and lightly took hold of Dipper's chin, thumb pressing against his lower lip. The wet sugar was spread out over in a thick coat.

“Drink it slowly,” Bill told him before taking his hand away to suck what sugar was left on his fingers.

Dipper blushed. On reflex his tongue swept out over his lips. The sugar was bright and sweet, with a hint of licorice heat. He held back a content hum before it turned into an embarrassingly suggestive moan. When the sweet subsided it left a slight bitter flavour behind that buzzed along Dipper's tongue.

He watched Bill lick his fingers in slow, passing sweeps. He internally moan, wishing Bill had would let him suck them clean. Dipper swallowed thickly, averting his eyes. His cheeks flushed and he hoped to hide it with his profile.

Bill gathered his glass and turning away, took up a place to sit. He sunk to the floor with a tired groan. His legs stretched out over the rugs. Back pressed to the couch, shifting until he found a comfortable position. He looked relaxed now, whatever tension held slipped from his muscles. Dipper thought he looked very handsome and welcoming like this. Less energetic and threatening, Dipper wanted to slide down to the floor and curl into that naked broad chest. The display made him very thirsty, throat running dry. Dipper turned and gathered his drink.

“Are you going to keep standing there, or are you going to join me?”

Bill's voice was smooth and smokey in ways that made Dipper repress a shiver. He pretended to not be so easily effected. Instead, Dipper stood where he was, partly turned away from where Bill sat on the floor. He acted as if he didn't even hear him speak at all, looking off at the discarded bottle and used spoons with more interest. Dipper cradled his glass in his hands before taking a small sip. It was as fiery on his tongue as he expected it to be, heating his mouth and throat as he swallowed.

For a long moment he stayed that way, glass raised to his lips in a playful aloofness, breathing in the aromatic smell of licorice. The drink warmed his heart and eased his mind, bringing Dipper back to those brief yet perfect moments of being wrapped in Bill's arms, their bodies pressed together tightly. A smirk tugged on the corner of his mouth.

Dipper turned slowly to look at him now. The man was definitely not someone Dipper would ever think as ideal, the farthest thing from healthy or right for him, but there was this odd magnetic pull that he couldn't deny. Bill was a drug in his veins, as essential to his life as both air and water. Dipper hated him for it. With only a few steps, he was right in front of him. Dipper sunk to his knees and settled himself on the rugs. He held himself up, leaning back on one hand to support him up. The other held his glass up to his bottom lip.

“There, I'm sitting. Happy now?” Dipper said with an air of sass. He took another small sip of his drink before remembering he shouldn't be drinking so fast. Bill chuckled and had some of his own.

Because their previous conversation was cut short, Dipper was itching to ask about Ford. So many questions ran through Dipper head. How exactly Bill and Ford knew one another, what their history was. Was his uncle really on his way. It was an unending whirlpool of thought, undoubtedly bound to leave him dizzier than the memory of blood on his hands. Dipper fingers tapped restlessly against the side of his glass. Ideally he chewed on him bottom lip, rolling the plush flesh between his teeth. There was a slight pinch from his eye teeth but nothing in comparison to the sharpness of Bill's.

“I know you have questions. I can see it on your face,” Bill said, cutting through Dipper's concentration. Wide brown eyes looked at him questioningly for his meaning. Bill nodded and continued. “I'll give you one questions. So think before you ask it because I don't want to spend my evening listening to you whine and ask for a life story.”

Dipper paused, more than a little surprised that Bill would be so accommodating. He didn't know what to ask. Yes, he had many questions but he could easily assume answers to most of them. Some other questions he didn't care to know the real answer, scared of what it could be. He frowned. This was a generous opportunity Bill was giving him, one Dipper didn't want to pass up on or regret later. He didn't want to ask anything stupid or pointless and needed to take into consideration how serious this could be for him. After all, he could ask about anything.

Dipper considered his options, nose in his glass. He breathed in the spicy scent of his absinthe, liking the way it tickled the back of his throat and made him feel so loose and easy. The taste on his tongue was vibrant before turning into a more lingering bitterness. He watched Bill drink, subconsciously downing his class with the same frequent mouthfuls. The alcohol diminished in the glass rapidly, emptying out over long stretched out minutes of silence while they watched each other's every minuet movement. It was uncomfortably intimate and made Dipper feel more exposed than if he were stripped naked. Bill's eye followed him as he set the empty glass aside, then back up to where Dipper licked at his lips.

His mind swam with potential questions, it buzzed from the alcohol. Dipper's face felt hundreds of degrees too hot. Leaning forward on his hands, Dipper pulled himself over to where Bill sat. Inching closer until their outside of their thighs brushed. Bill didn't flinch or pull away. Dipper's heart started to hammer in his chest. Bold, improper, something he would blame on the alcohol, Dipper swung his leg over Bill's legs and found a place to sit in his lap.

The pirate raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised but not objecting to how forward Dipper's actions were. He set his empty glass aside and leant further back into the couch. They looked at one another, wondering what the other was going to do next.

Dipper let his fingers raise and rest along Bill's cheeks. They stroked over the skin drawing long continuous line down to his jaw. Bill's skin was warm, and when Dipper breathed in deeply he could have sworn he smelt sea salt.

Bill returned the small gesture, pressing his cheek into the flat of Dipper's palm. He rubbed the soft skin fondly before placing a single kiss to Dipper's wrist.

He hated to ruin such a soft moment between them but Dipper was born too curious for his own good and spoke without thinking. Whatever possessed him to do so or for whatever reason, he said just barely above a whisper.

“Take off your eye-patch.”

“Was that suppose to be some sort of question?” Bill replied, brow furrowed and stern.

Dipped gave a small nod and rephrased his statement. “Would you... take off your eye-patch... please?”

Bill lifted his face from where it had laid so perfectly in Dipper's palm. The content look on his face melted away into unhappy, resentful glare. A crease formed deep between his eyebrows. For a moment he did nothing but hold Dipper's eye, not breaking contact even to blink. It was unsettling and Dipper believed he was about to be pushed aside in a fit of anger and rejection.

Dipper dropped his hands, balling them into fists at his sides. He didn't truly know why he asked Bill of such a thing. It was not beneficial to anyone. It didn't prove anything or give Dipper any useful information. But it was a part of Bill he hadn't seen, and somewhere in Dipper's tipsy mind, he felt that was important to him. He could tell Bill kept the eye-patch on at all times, possibly even slept with it. Dipper considered it something personal that he wanted to share it, almost secretive, something only he'd get to know.

Finally, after the long awkward pause, Bill's hand rose behind his head. His fingers pinched and carefully undid the tightly tight knots that held his eye-patch firmly in place. What came over him him to go along with this was surely supernatural. He avoided looking at his own face. He wouldn't be doing this for anyone if it weren't some strange possession. Of all things for the kid to ask of him... Bill hesitated for a moment when the string fell loose and open. But he complied, sure that Dipper would immediately turn away in disgust. He couldn't even handle a little blood. He knew his Pine Tree would reject him further after this.

Bill slipped off the patch, letting it go to fall beside them. He sat still, awaiting inspection and the inevitable criticism. He tried not to meet Dipper's eye by looking off in the depths of empty space just beyond the kid's shoulder. Bill told himself it would be over within seconds. Dipper would climb off him and retreat into the next room. However, those short seconds were starting to drag unexpectedly. He could feel Dipper's gaze gliding over his face as if he were touching the dead skin. It was torture.

_Hell bells_, Bill swore in his head. Fingers touched his jaw and he tried not to flinch. Worse than immediate rejection was to feel blind sympathy and pity. He didn't need that disgusting bull shit. Bill's hand shot up and gripped Dipper's wrist. He held it tightly as a warning but those damned fingers kept tracing over puckered skin and scar tissue with soft strokes.

“Pine Tree,” Bill bit out between clenched teeth, ready to stop this nonsense and make him stop.

But them a small wet pair of lips were pressed to his bisected brow. Bill couldn't even feel the whole kiss, nerves long dead and unfeeling to such a light touch. The odd sensation of pressure was there, letting him feel some of the kiss. He blinked and looked at the boy hovering above him. Dipper looked so distracted in his own searching that he didn't seem to notice Bill's discomfort.

“What happened?” Dipper asked softly.

Bill took a long breath before answering with a rude, clipped, “ask your uncle.”

For some reason though, Dipper still looked happy. Even after the impolite gesture and tone directed at him. He had a pleased look on his face like he'd won some sort of immature game. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It left Bill at a lose for words. He couldn't think of anything to say further or to do. He was as dumbstruck as Dipper was curious.

Bill closed his eyes as his Sapling leaned down to start peppering kisses from his forehead to his chin. Each kiss lingered on his skin for longer than the last, growing bold and confident. They crept closer to the corner of Bill's mouth, barely brushing his lips before pulling away. Bill indulges him. Shock was still set in his bones, confusion and alcohol muddying his thoughts. So with a velvety hum of amusement, Bill let Dipper do as he wished, to explore and touch as he so chose. He tilted his head back to let those little kisses trail down under his jaw to his neck.

Bill reached out to lay his hands atop Dipper's thighs but kept himself from touching him, scared that the light pressure would startle him or cause him to stop. He let his hands drop to the floor and rest on the scratchy rug.

Dipper's lips dragged over the heated skin of Bill's neck. The expanse of tanned skin laid bare, without the nuisance of clothes to keep him from moving lower was for him to enjoy. Dipper found small marks left from their morning's dalliance, now bloomed to the surface in blue and purple. He let himself taste and lick at the sensitive spots that littered Bill from ear to shoulder. He pressed his lips to Bill's pause point, happy to find it fluttering quicker.

Dipper smiled and sucked the skin between his teeth, determined to leave a larger, more harsh bruise than the ones there now. Bill groaned in his ear, low and content. Dipper liked that sound immensely, finding it more familiar as time passed. He wanted to hear it over and over, louder and more strained. Physically his body still hurt, too sore and torn to full enjoy the luxury of sex. Although Dipper wanted to. He shamelessly lusted after Bill, wanting him repeatedly and often. He wanted to be touched and consumed. He placed a longing kiss over Bill's shoulder.

Dipper's fingers ran the length of Bill's torso, drawn downward towards his hips. Back bowed, he couldn't kiss any lower than Bill's chest. Lazy and slow, Dipper slipped down. His legs stretched out behind him, settling between Bill's in a lounge. They curled under him as he settled on his side. Dipper pressed his forehead to Bill's stomach. He closed his eyes. Lips parted, thirsty for something on his tongue, Dipper lick his skin.

Bill's muscles flexed, finding it hard to relax with someone laying between his thigh. If it was anyone else, he would have shoved them further down, impatient and demanding for their mouth. And while he would like to rush things along, grab at the head of curls by force, Bill tried to remain still and pliant. He did want to let himself enjoy the leisure, lazy sexual gratification.

He was too tired for much more than this, stamina diminished from the long day. The adrenaline in his system was faded now, a throbbing pain in his arm setting in to mix with his over all fatigue. The alcohol was also not helpful. Still, a lazy fuck would be a relief, slow and grinding. Neither chasing orgasm or caring if it was ever achieved. Bill just wanted to feel the boy pressed to his hip.

He heard the light metallic rattle of his belt before he felt it being pulled free. Bill smiled and rubbed a hand over his face. His head fell back over the couch cushion as hot breath ghosted over his lower abdomen, tickling the fine hairs that ran below his navel. The front of his pants were opened in a tantalizing, unhurried push. Bill swallowed, a curse falling from his lips no louder than a breathy whisper.

“Fuck,” Bill groaned and dared a look down.

The mop of curly brown hair in his lap, bowed and calm. Bill reached out and touched a stray curl, winding it around his finger. He lightly let his palm rest atop Dipper's head. It was hardly enough to get Bill off, no where near enough, but damn if it wasn't the best slow tease of his life.

The wet flat of a tongue and open mouthed kissed along his skin. The tug of arousal that was steadily building every time Dipper wrapped his lips around a particularly sensitive vein. Bill wanted this to last so much longer than it was going to. Especially when Dipper tipped his head back, looking up at him through a tangled fringe. His eyes were searching, curious, wondering if Bill was enjoying any of what he was doing to him. In response, Bill gave him a nonverbal answer by carding his fingers through his hair and give little encouraging nudges down, pushing into his mouth just that much more. It seemed to be enough for the kid to continue without more instruction.

It was over too fast for how dallying and drawn out each suck and bob along his dick. Bill's arousal peaked with a slight flutter in his stomach. He groaned out a sigh of relief and came with a lazy drool of cum, rolling into Dipper's mouth. The kid made an noise in the back of his throat that was somewhere between alarmed and drunkenly amused.

Bill untangles his grip from Dipper's knotted head of hair, fingers getting snagged and pulled on the knots he'd made. Awkwardly he patted Dipper's head condescendingly like a dog before letting it drop away.

Dipper rolled onto his side, draped over Bill's thigh. His cheeked were red with embarrassment and drink, yet he looked giddy and light. His eyes were glassy and wet when he looked up at Bill. With a smile, he chuckled and turned his face to press his cheek against Bill's hand. Dipper lay there, happy to absorb Bill's body heat and company through touch.

Bill temporarily disturbed him by moving that hand, much to Dipper protest. The kid mumbled something but was quickly shushed when Bill moved his hand through his hair. He pushed the curls away from his face, scraping his nails lightly over his scalp. Dipper cooed and sighed, calmed by the gentle and almost affectionate touch.

“Do you get like this every time you drink?” Bill asked. He definitely wouldn't object to testing the idea, to see if alcohol consistently made Dipper sexually affectionate and submissive.

“I don't know,” Dipper said, stretching a little. “You'd have to keep me around and see.”

“What an idea,” Bill agreed.

The very implication was ludicrous, that the boy wanted to stay with him and had almost asked him to. It felt like it anyway. The indirect subtext and clear hope in those brown eyes. Neither man fulling knew how to proceed this, falling quiet and silently trying to work out the others feelings through nothing but brief glances and body language.

Bill's hand stopped running through Dipper's hair. It lay there, cupping the back of his head protectively and not wanting to let it go.

Dipper shifted on his shoulder for a more comfortable position. He looked up at Bill. The man's full face turned to him, one eye watching him back with interest. The other half of his face was dimpled and scars, rippled from an old wound that took his eye. It wasn't terribly ugly or even off putting to him. If anything, he found he loved the scar more because it made him think he was special. Dipper was one of few to be shown that side of Bill. He wouldn't push his luck further thank this, wouldn't ask to see it any more than what made Bill comfortable. So, for now, Dipper committed the image to memory and smiled.

“Are you planing to keep me around, Bill?” Dipper asked, open and coy.

“You already asked your one questions, Pine Tree.” Bill cleaned his throat and huffed on a breath. “Nice try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3
> 
> Head-canon: Dipper is really bitchy when he doesn't get proper aftercare.  
Also Head-canon: Dipper is a light weight and a horny drunk.
> 
> Fun historical fact: absinthe is not hallucinogenic or laced with drugs. It is however, anywhere between 90-150 proof alcohol. Right up there with moonshine. In comparison, on average, beer is 3-6% alcohol. Always drink responsibly!


	12. Chapter 12

Time passed quickly into night, settling the room into a dim glow of yellow light. The bulbs of electrical lamps were turned down, barely casting a shine up the wall. Through the cozy darkness, Bill's well trained eye fell on Dipper's sleeping form. The long curved lines of his side and hip stretched out over the coach in a delicate sprawl. Despite the slumber being caused by an excess of alcohol, the boy's body was beautiful in its openness and relaxed manner. Half on his side, head turned into the pillow, Dipper laid with one arm draped over his waist while the other hung limp from the coach cushion. His skin looked soft in the light's warm caress, leaving the apples of his cheeks dusted with a pink hue.

Bill leaned back in his desk chair, silently watching the way Dipper breathed in a slow rhythmic fashion. His fingers held a glass by its rim. The contents had long since been drunk but he'd yet to set it down, content to simply hold the glass for now. It was easy to forget while he watched Dipper sleep. Something in the sight was like living art, captivating Bill to the bone. His eye skimmed the thin body like he was a painting, taking in each detailed fold of fabric and display of skin. Bill swallowed a thick mouthful of tension. He tried to take a sip from his glass but found it empty.

He huffed through his nose and set the glass down on the desk. The persuading thought to sleep crept through his mind. It was a blissful suggestion, one Bill happily entertained. The prospect of carrying his Sapling to bed for a real nights sleep sounded like a dream. Especially after how little he'd gotten the past few days. Bill stretched in his chair. It already felt, as he'd been watching Dipper, like he'd been asleep with his eye open. His mind was a haze of exhaustion and as the alcohol was wearing from his system, the pained ache settled into his muscles more predominately.

Bill rolled his shoulder, groaning as the muscle strained and protested against such movement. He sighed to himself before finally standing. As much as he wished to sleep, there was a crew to check on and one man in particular that Bill rather deal with sooner instead of later. The hour had grown later than what he deemed responsible of his position as Captain. Disappearing from deck for too long after such a debacle of an encounter. By now gossip would have started up. And for all he knew, by now Tad could have found a sneaky way to jump ship or convince the crew of Bill's failures as Captain with some fabricated story as proof.

All these thoughts were of his own creation, and Bill knew little of the truth. Tad hid his intentions well behind the stoic expression and polite manner he paraded around the ship. Until recently, Bill had no reason to suspect his first mate of any ill intent. To find him disloyal now, well, it was a shame really. Bill would hate to find a replacement after so many years of what he believed was vigilant service. He supposed all good things did have to come to an end eventually...

Bill moved through the cabin with quiet steps. He stood over his Pine Tree, still debating on taking him to bed or not. Both of them looked like they deserved such a thing, tired expressions aside. Maybe if the kid hadn't been such a distraction earlier, Bill could have dealt with his ship and gotten to take the needy brat to bed before the clock struck such a late hour. Heedlessly, Bill touched his eye patch. Who was he trying to fool. In all honesty, Bill couldn't complain about how their evening had unfolded.

They had shared a few more drinks, not that Bill had offered Dipper more alcohol. Instead, the single glass between them was emptied again and again each time Bill refilled it. They found themselves comfortable on the floor, glues at the hip as they laid across the rugs. Bill had gotten Dipper to laugh, much to his surprise at the time. But it had been light and genuine when Dipper smiled, regardless of the alcohol. In return for the smile, Bill made sure to leave a fresh bruise over the kid's neck, large and deep purple-red in colour.

Even in the dim light of the cabin, Bill could see the bruising skin left by his own mouth. The patch stuck up from underneath the collared shirt, not at all hidden by the bright fabric. Bill thought it suited him well.

He shrugged his shoulders, finding his neck kinked awkwardly from the stressful day. Bill rubbed a hand down over the back of his neck, pressing into the tight skin. He didn't have the mind to handle his crew tonight. It was something he would have to put off until morning. Bill adjusted the loose cotton fabric of the nightshirt he'd pulled on as the night dragged and turned colder. He pushed the sleeves up over his forearms, ready to stoop down and gather up his sleeping Pine Tree from among the couch cushions. However stopped when a softer, almost purposefully muted knock came to his cabin door. First in rapid succession, then spaced out by equal counts of three seconds.

Bill stood, knowing full well who was outside his door. Apparently, this wasn't going to wait until morning. He swore under his breath and stood tall.

Before the knock could come again, Bill moved to open the large door. He pulled back the handle and stepped aside to allow the new comer entry.

“Teeth,” Bill greeted in a hushed tone. He didn't want to wake Dipper at this time, less he hear something he shouldn't. “Come in. Be quick about it. I don't got all night.”

Bill let the man enter his cabin, watching with a keen eye for any sign of suspension, the absent-minded pat down for a gun or the twitch of a finger seeking a knife. Teeth seemed to be smarter than that, hands laying slack at his sides, appearing unarmed in a show of loyalty. The pirate waddled as he walked, lumbering over short legs and a heavy foot fall. It did not go unnoticed how he looked towards the couch, frowning over the sight. Yet, he said nothing as he turned away.

Bill pretended not to be concerned or effected by this. He kept his back straight and shouldered squared off, not at all seeming bothered by the fact that the kid was sleeping near by, or that both men had a good view of him and the exposed skin of hip. Bill closed and locked the door before following behind, making a protective move in between his Sapling and his crew mate. He snapped his fingers sharply to draw all attention back to himself.

“Don't- ... Never mind the kid,” Bill said before making a short line for his desk. He kept his voice low and encouraged Teeth to do the same. “He's dead to the world for a few hours anyway. Doesn't got a head for strong booze... But you're not here for that. Speak.”

The chair squeaked as Bill dropped into it. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Teeth expectantly.

“Right... Well, I'd say your hunch about Tad was right on the mark, sir...” The statement came with a hiss of air between clenched teeth and a nod of affirmation. He shoved his hands into his pant pockets and came to stand in front of Bill's desk.

“How's that?” Bill asked, wanting to know everything his mate had dug up thus far.

“Wasn't easy but I asked around. A few of the men say he's been actin' odd lately-”

“_Odd_?”

“Didn't even notice 'till ya brought it up, sir. But his comings and goings sure aren't normal. Least I don't think. The men would agree...”

“Anything specific you'd like to share, or am I going to have to pull the answer from ya?” Bill growled out his threat.

Teeth wasn't intimated or scared by Bill's deeper, angrier voice. He was a well seasoned pirate with a backbone of steal. The warning tone simply made him nod in apology before continuing.

“From what I know, he's been wanderin' the ship at all hours of night. For the past week or so... Showing up in places he got no need to be in. Little things like that, sir,” Teeth said. He was hesitant to talk with another set of ears in the room, casting a sidelong glance over his shoulder at Dipper. The kid looked fast asleep to him, drunk into stupor. But still, he was hesitant. “Secretive mostly... 'bout what he's up to. Not that I've asked him directly.”

“I said, don't mind the kid, Teeth,” Bill warned, slapping a hand down on the desk. Teeth slowly turned his head back around, a raised eyebrow in question over the topic of their hostage. From what he knew about it, the kid should have been locked up somewhere else. Apparently, that was no longer the case.

It was abundantly clear that not everything was as it should be, from where Teeth stood in the room that was... Not only their Captain's suspicions over the first mate, but the free range their kidnapped hostage seemed to have inside the cabin, how easily Bill was agitated by a simple look. Teeth could come up with a bundle of theories, but held his tongue less he lose it. It was knowledge he could save for later, for a smarter time to bring it up, should anyone need to know of it. He continued on with his report to Bill like nothing happened.

“He's been seen sending telegraphs. Sends the men away so he can do so. They don't know what about either. Don't know who he's sending them to...”

“I'm aware of this, Teeth,” Bill said, cutting him off there. “And I'd bet a fortune on who this third party is... What else?”

“-Who?.... He tends to send everyone away when he enters a room. Says it's on your orders, Cap'n. So, it's hard to say for sure what he does.”

Bill had to bite back the urge to yell in sheer frustration. He seethed, pressing his back firmly to the chair. Being a backstabbing little shit was one things, but saying he was following Captain's orders was nothing level of insulting. Spineless and cowardly, that's what it was. Not clever enough to come up with a real excuse. That's what he thought of it.

Bill let this information sink in, closing his eye tightly. For a long moment he remained completely still and quiet. The room was so quiet that the ticking of the wall clock cut the air like each turn of its gears were aggressive and heavy. It was a foreboding state, one that Teeth did grow uncomfortable by. Any man would. It was the calm before the storm that only a fool would think safe to be near.

Teeth forced himself to not inch back from the desk. He cleared his throat just a crack, able and willing to continue but Bill silenced him by the soft, steady rapping of his fingers against the hard desktop. They moved in a steady pattern, timed like a metronome, falling in perfect succession to the one previous. It hit the ear like an eerie drum for a long drawn out minute.

A crooked smile crept onto Bill's face. The grin was all white, sharp teeth, lips pulling back on the gums.

“What else?” Bill asked calmly.

Teeth held his ground, hoping his Captain wouldn't take to shooting the messenger over more bad news. He sucked in a breath and started again,

“Today, when he got back on board-”

“Yes, that, where did he disappear to?”

“...when he got back on board, he went with what little the crew loaded. Everythin' got stowed properly away, as expected. It was nothing out of the ordinary for him. Just a routine double check... And since ya were absent at the time-”

“Small injury. Nothing severe, you can assure the men of that.” Bill filled in that information for him, in case of gossip or speculation. “Whatever happened today, I'll have it handled.”

“...'course.” Teeth branched off topic briefly to discuss the status of their haul, the men who were back on board and who obtained what injury during the fight. Bill soaked up all this like a sponge, filing away every detail in his mind for later. As far as this went, the only note worthy information given was a casualty of two crewmen and a small handful of wounds.

“Convenient for our boy, Strange, that he was safely on board at the time,” Bill mused.

“I thought as much.”

Bill sighed and finally opened his eye to look at Teeth. “Anything on who took the first shot today? Anything word on that?”

“Sorry, sir. No one seems to know. Perhaps it was one of the dead-”

“What a coincidence.” Bill laughed. It was a sharp, cheery laugh that bubbled up from his belly. There was amusement behind it that let it come in waves. His shoulder shook loosely as he laughed around his words. “Once again, Taddy boy, you are extraordinarily lucky. What a _coincidence_!” he stressed.

Bill's fingers curled into a hard fist, nails clenching and digging into the flesh of his palm. He slammed his fist against the desk. Across the room Dipper stirred in his sleep, softly whining over the abrupt noise. Bill looked his way just shy of a breath, watching to see if the boy would wake. Thankfully, all he did was roll onto his back, somehow finding a comfortable way to lay on the cramped space of the couch. With a sigh, Bill pulled himself up to lean forward on the desk.

“Teeth, find out who fired that gun. I don't care if they are already dead. I want to know who to blame,” Bill told him. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it more than it already had been after his evening with a drunk Sapling. But that was then, this was no longer a leisurely spent evening where Bill would find comfort in his bed, a warm body pressed to his side. Anger was riling up inside him to the point where calmness and sleep would be unattainable.

Bill looked at his crew mate and asked, “where is Tad now?”

“Last I saw him, he was headin' for the bridge.” Teeth shrugged. “As far as I know, that's his typical evening route before turning in for the night.”

“How long ago?”

“Right before I came here to see ya.”

“Then I'll look for him there,” Bill said. He stood from his chair, mentally prepared for a fight.

“Gonna get messy, Cap'n?”

“Without a doubt...”

There was a tremor and the sound of a crash, a heavy thud of metal against solid rock. The cabin felt as though it was swaying back and forth for a moment as they two men stood stalk still, confused and of sorts. The pipes in the walls hissed and clattered in use. They hadn't run aground. It would be impossible. But as the shaking subsided, it was clear something was underfoot. Bill stared straight ahead, evaluating the rocking and wavering of the floor, like his ship was adrift in the ocean. Slowly, he stepped away from the desk, cautious and perplexed.

He mumbled under his breath, talking only to himself. Teeth spoke up to get his attention but the words fell on deft ears. In that moment, Bill's full attention was on the ship's gentle hum and the vibration of the engines, ever present in the beautiful metal work of its hull. He crossed the room with long, quick strides. He reached for the windows. The previously drawn curtains which hide the outside world from view were torn open.

Darkness, but not of the night sky. It took a moment, a small adjustment to block the reflection caused by the dull cabin light, but Bill could see that he wasn't staring out into the endless blackness of night. There were no stars to break up the inky blue expanse. And the clouds, what could be seen of them, were far over head when they should be at Bill's feet, looking like patches of snow amongst the grass.

Further more, Bill was face to face with a vast breadth of rock. It was rough faced and unworked by modern progress. The wall was too flat and steep. They weren't routed to pass near any mountain ranges, and they were fly low. Not even flying.

In the dead of night, with no cities in shooting distance, his ship was inexplicably anchored to a tall cliff side.

“No,” Bill breathed softly before rapidly growing more and more agitated. “No, no, no, No!”

He turned from the window to yank open the next set of curtains a few feet down the wall. However, he found the same rock face blocking his view. Bill clenched his teeth, grinding his molars. He could feel is blood starting to boil over.

“Teeth,” he began in a deep, murderous tone. “Care to tell me why we are currently docked to a _fucking_ cliff?!” Bill spun on his heels to glare at the man.

“Cap'n, I swear-”

“Why, in all holy bloody hell, is my ship docked?!” Bill was loosing all control over the volume of his voice, of his actions. As he continued to shout like a mad man, Bill stormed through the cabin, grabbing for the first weapon he could find. From a table top, he swiped up a discarded gun. He waved the thing in the air. “Speak, you worthless stump of a man!”

“I don't know. I did nothing by this!” Teeth argued.

“Tad sent you here, didn't he? Stalling for time, a distraction, who else is in on this?” Bill cocked the gun and strode forward, the barrel level with Teeth's head. “Talk, and make it convincing this time. I won't be giving you another chance.”

“Sir,” Teeth held his hands up in surrender, completely at the throws of Bill's nonexistent mercy. “I never spoke to, Strange. Whatever he's up to – I ain't part of it. I didn't have anything to do with this – don't know who is!”

Whether Bill believed him or not was irrelevant. At that moment, he had no choice but to take him at his word. Only for the time being however. The truth could be pried from him later if necessary. He would have then and there, but a soft thud and the surprised squeal of his name broke Bill's focus in two different directions. He turned his head in time to watch his Pine Tree tumble from the couch, having woken up from his nap to the sight of a drawn gun being held to another man's head. And as much as Bill would like to desensitize the kid to blood and violence with a personal show of it, Bill knew this was not the time nor place.

On the one hand, he could easily kill Teeth then and there, get it over with so there was one less loose end to tie up at the end of the night. It would leave Dipper screaming in fear and sulking in the sleep cabin for the next few hours, but it would be easy.

Bill withdrew his gun, but held it firm to show that he could and would still shoot if made to feel so inclined. There was still the matter of Tad and it would be smart to have someone watch his Sapling. Just in case.

“Good new,” he said with a wide smile. “There's been a change of plan. I got a job for you.”

Bill moved away from Teeth. He safely slipped the gun into the waistband of his pants for now. It would be useful later, alongside the others he picked up on the way.

He stepped up to the couch, paying little attention to how Dipper stumbled over his own feet to get up and meet him face to face. There were small, jittery movements and for a second it looked as if he was trying to back away from Bill's looming presence. Bill didn't let that happen. As gently as he could, though his anger left his grip tighter and rougher than desirable, he snagged a hold of Dipper's arm and pulled him in close. The kid immediately fought against him, starting to yell in protest, confused over what was going on. It was a valiant effort but he couldn't wriggle out of Bill's tight hold.

Without a worn of warning, Bill's free arm slipped downwards and all at once Dipper was lifted off the floor. He kicked his feet, continuing to scream bloody murder. Each cry went ignored, without threat or punishment. Through the cabin and door, Bill carried him over to the bed. It as inelegant and careless.

“Bill!” Dipper whined, a confused sadness ringing through his voice that Bill wanted to silence in some way. However, what concern he felt was smothered by the unrelenting anger that fuelled his busy mind. He said nothing and dropped the lanky body onto the mattress in a heap. He tried not to meet Dipper's eyes, the way they stared up at him lost and still dazed from drink. Bill frowned, displeased that their night was so well tarnished.

He offered no explanation or apology before he turned his back to Dipper. Only a few long strides took Bill from the room. In a race to catch him, Dipper rolled from the bed, trying to throw himself across the floor. His hands shot out to push the door back and keep it from closing. But the heavy metal was shut tight before he could make it.

Bill sighed, a small tinge of remorse tugging at his cold heart. He stamped it down, trying to douse the annoying emotion within him. Turning from the door, he addressed Teeth who still stood as witness.

“He does not leave that room,” Bill told him, ordered him. “No one goes in. In fact, that door remains locked until I come back. If anyone, for any reason, enters here and even so much as looks at that door – fill 'em with lead!”

“Yes, Cap'n.”

Bill moved quickly about the cabin, purely focused on his task. The single gun he had tucked away was joined by two more, shoved into a shoulder holster. A knife was slid into the strap on his boot, and his pockets messily filled with bullets. There was little time for finesse, and even less time to plan out an impromptu murder. So, this would have to do. Bill smoothed his hair back sloppily and gave Teeth one last hard look. His eye narrowed, brow creased.

“I mean it, your life depends on that door remaining closed. If anything happens to him – it's because you're already dead. Am I understood?”

Bill was given a salute which he had to force himself to accept as honestly given loyalty.

He didn't want to let any more time get away from him. Bill bit his tongue, refusing to look back or be deterred by the sounds of Dipper's muffled fit of anger and aggressive pounding on the dividing door. Bill buckled the holster in place across his chest and left the cabin, letting the door slam closed behind him.

Dipper screamed. He called for Bill, demanding he come back. But there was nothing but the sound of his own voice, the repeated slap of his palm against the metal. Once again he was locked up, and he hated it. His breathing grew faster. He was so mad. Dipper hollered as loud as he could, inevitably to be ignored and left in the painful silence of the small sleep cabin.

The wave of adrenaline that hit his was starting to ease. His ears felt hot from the rush and made his head spin. It was such a sudden feeling, the remaining buzz of alcohol in his blood crashed against him. It was sickening and Dipper felt like he'd been poisoned. His skin was clammy and hot. The turn of his stomach was unpleasant and uncomfortable. Dipper pressed his forehead to the cool metal door, grateful for its dramatic temperature difference. It helped cool his sweating skin and took away the immediate swing of nausea. Unfortunately, it did not completely leave him.

With a few shaking steps, knees wobbling under him, Dipper walked backwards from the door. He reached out for the bed, searching blindly as his eyelids dropped closed. His knees found the soft plushness of the mattress first and Dipper collapsed onto it. He surrendered to how weak and dizzy he felt, unable to do much else. Dipper swore softly, trying to breath through the need to vomit.

He swallowed thickly and blinked at the spots forming on the edge of his vision. In the low light, the ceiling above him seemed to spin and tilt. Dipper laid all the way back and closed his eyes, begging and praying for this sensation to cease. He groaned softly and covered his eyes with an arm.

“God, make it stop...” Dipper wheezed, gritting his teeth to keep from gagging on his own bitter saliva. The flavour made him cough and roll to the side, seeking comfort. There he lay, tired and sickened, with his head cradled by an arm. Dipper should have known better than to trust him, even for a minute. “Bill, you bastard...”

Maybe a quarter of an hour passed like this, trying to will away what he could of the alcohol. It wasn't enough time for the vertigo to stop or for the nausea to ease. Not enough time for him to be prepared for the loud bang which came from the cabin beyond the closed door. Dipper peeked an eye open, barely flinching anymore at the familiar sound. He wasn't surprised by the metallic clatter any longer, the breaking glass or shouting. Bill tended to throw things and tear through a room like a tornado. At least Bill hadn't been gone too long.

Dipper went to push himself up onto an elbow when two very clear gun shots rang out. The sound ricocheting distinct and loud off the wall.

Dipper froze mid action. He didn't move a muscle, one arm crooked under him, weight perched on his forearm. He listened, listened for angry screaming and the familiar orotund voice. But there was nothing, no swearing or malicious laughter, no onslaught of threats and destruction. Dipper shuffled up on the bed, not liking the silence coming from the next room. Due to the thick metal, he couldn't make out much of anything and couldn't know about the soft footsteps coming closer. Only when the bolt was pulled away and the door was opened that Dipper knew this man wasn't Bill.

In the faint glow of the light, Dipper could see the thinner build and tall posture. The shadow creased features of an otherwise stoic face. He recognized the head of black hair, perfectly parted and waxed in place. As he slowly approached, Dipper felt as though his heart would stop beating.

Strange stepped away from the door frame. Passed him, Dipper could see the form of the man speaking with Bill earlier. He was slumped over in the next room, bleeding to death on the floor. Two bullet wounds punched through his chest.

Dipper pulled his legs up onto the bed, slinking back across the mattress in retreat. But his ankle was grabbed in a tight hand and he was yanked, harshly forward. He fell back, having his legs pulled out from under him. A breath was knocked out of his lungs.

“You've been quite the trouble since you got here,” Tad said calmly, his demeanour far from matching his intentions. He shook his head as if disappointed before letting go of Dipper's leg. “I warned, Bill. God knows I did. However, you – somehow – you managed to really get him wrapped around your little finger. Now he won't listen to me.”

Tad railed back his hand, fingers curled up in a tight fist. His knuckled came down hard against Dipper's cheekbone. The kid gasped as the hit knocked his head the side.

Stunned, head swimming from impact, Dipper didn't have the ability to protect himself as it happened again and again. His head bounced off the mattress. His cheek, his brow. Each strong hit left him seeing lights in the darkened room.

An explosive pain shot through his head, sparking his brain like a live wire. He cried out, arms coming up to try and cover himself. His body bowed on reflex, trying to become small and tightly wound as fear took over. He desperately tried, but hands were gripping his shirt before he knew what they were doing.

In a mad scramble, Tad grabbed and pulled him by the shirt. Dipper's lanky body was forced off the mattress. And in one harsh push, threw to the floor.

Tad watched, satisfied at the way Bill's precious boy went down like a hapless rag doll.

“I told him, that if he didn't deal with you then I would,” he said seriously. Tad sighed as if he was somehow burdened by his own actions, before lashing out at Dipper again. The hard toe of his boot ramming against the delicately structured ribs. The kid screamed. “Still, he didn't listen. He never does. Had you under lock and key, guarded... treating you like you're priceless.”

Tad kicked him again out of spite. “You're just something he can lord over your fucking uncle... I'm sick of the lot of you.”

Dipper croaked, coughing on bile and spit. It choked him and left him gasping for air. Drool coated his lips, his mouth falling open to wretch and cry. His eyes stung with wet tears, brought on by the pain. He wanted to run and hide, to even fight back, but shock held his body in a cold grasp. He lay paralyzed on the floor.

He saw Tad through his blurring vision. The man stood over him, judging, watching him writhe. There was no show of pleasure on his face, no obvious tell which suggested Tad enjoyed this. If he did it was being masked by an expression of annoyance and resentment. Dipper whimpered and blinked away the tears.

“Once Bill finally gets rid of that pestering old man, he'll be over you as well. Because he won't have a need for you.” Tad crouched over Dipper, poised on his toes. He let his forearms lazily rest across his knees. “I can see why Bill feels the need to keep you. You're easy to break.”

Tad offered him a warm smile before roughly slapping Dipper across the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry Dipper...
> 
> Wow! We've made it to a word count of over 100,000!!!! That's mind blowing to me!  
Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments!
> 
> (Also, thanks for all the attention on my new fic Black Magic. It means a lot to me!)


	13. Chapter 13

Bill burst onto the bridge with a furious presence. A fire burned in his eye, one sparked to life by anger and betrayal. He's loud, making a scene as the door is pushed open with a metallic, vibrating bang throughout the large room. If he possessed the power to do so Bill would have the door ripped from the wall, torn down by his own bare hands. He stands there, blocking the main exit, ready to fight and slaughter anyone in his path to get to his formerly loyal first mate.

However, there is no one there to challenge him. The men are gone, as usual for the late hour. Many would have already retired to their bunks. The electrical lighting of the bridge is lowered to a gentle glow, casting the metal features or the controls and wall-mounted piping in a shadowy blur. And the night shift, typically no more than two to a post, were also absent from sight. This included the tall figure of Tad which Bill had come to seek out. Where he assumed to find him leaning over the controls or wheel, stood no one.

Though the room appeared empty, he didn't let his guard down. Bill took a heavy step forward, moving through the room with a hostile intent. Everything at first glance seemed to be as things should be. Nothing notably out of place or disturbed, everything left intact and perfect. Bill hissed a breath out through tightly clenched teeth, wondering if he had been sent on a wild chase, lied to by yet another crew mate he believed to be trustworthy. He second guessed himself, his crew and their alignment. Had they all abandoned him, or were there still some who followed him...

Hands curling into fists, Bill felt made a fool of. He's make sure both Tad and Teeth – _anyone_ who thought they could go behind his back – would die, slow and painfully. He stalked forward, pulse pounding in his ears. Anger was set in his muscles, leading him to desperately wish to destroy all he touched. Even if it cost him the function of his own precious ship.

Bill let his knuckles settle on the controls, rapping the metal with an irritated unrest. He scanned the gauges that kept them level with the cliff side. Someone had to set these in place, working in tune with the boiler room to stall their travel. He frowned, angered that such an act was being carried out right under his nose. He growled, taking a step away before he punched a hole through the glass dial cover. The tip of his boot struck something solid and heavy, definitely not the edge of a metal cabinet. Bill paused, not in hesitation but with caution. It would be stupid to not expect a trap now, not after everything he'd seen. His hand carefully went to the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

He inched to the side, stepping around whatever it was he kicked. The gun was drawn, fast and accurately aimed down toward the hidden lump in the shadows. Finger poised, ready to press down on the trigger, Bill held his hand steady.

His eye trailed the darkness, taking in the visible outline and limp shape of one of his navigators. The disposed body was tucked against the wall, back sliding down under the weight of gravity and the heavy mass of its own frame. He wasn't crouched for a spring attack, or hiding for his own safety away from his murderous Captain. Instead, the wide set body was crumpled and still, head to chest and feet out stretched.

From under the close cut grey hair, blood slowly oozed from a fresh head wound and left long streaks along the downcast face. After a moment of close inspection Bill could see the soft movement of breath, the rhythmic raising and lowering of the chest. The man was alive, just unconscious.

“Kryptos...” Bill seethed aloud. At least someone had been loyal it seemed. He also knew who to blame for this. “Hell's bells...”

He kept the gun close at hand, not knowing who on board were on his side, how many had taken to following Tad's orders over his own. To be safe, Bill decided they were all against him until proven otherwise.

Shuffling back, Bill left the knocked out navigator where he found them, uninterested by the unconscious man for now. He moved to the controls again. The gauges flickered in their casing, maintaining their altitude. Why had no one alerted him of this sabotage. One man surely couldn't hijack his airship without even the slightest commotion. Unless everyone was in on this plan. Or, Bill thought as his eye slide to the side to look at his navigator, his night crew were all incapacitated or dismissed.

Bill was urged to sound the alarm and rouse his whole damn crew, but he kept himself calm and quiet. He didn't want to risk bringing in more men than necessary, especially ones looking to see him dead. It would only prove more hazardous than helpful. He could handle Tad on his own, quickly and quietly. The rest would follow when the time came. Bill swore under his breathe, furious. His fist came down hard on the console, rattling the metal under impact.

He had to find Tad. All this going on, he had to be somewhere. Bill turned on his heels sharply and broke out into a sprint the second his boot toe touched the floor.

The bridge was left behind him as he made his way through the narrow halls. The sound of his boots running along hard steel echoes off the walls. Each sharp turn was taken, boots skidding and sliding. Through the ship, bow to stern, toward the anchor and the bulk of the hull. As expected, the ship was all but emptied of men. The stray sign of those awake, only a distance murmur of disembodied voices and the clattering of work. Nothing which alerted Bill to change his course or draw his attention for long. His focus sent him running for the anchor first.

When he arrived, no one was manning it. The lever being pulled back and left, its chain at its end. Bill skidded to a halt before the large mechanism. He touched the lever, an intent to pull it back and retract the anchor. However, the idea left him as quickly as it came to mind. The hatch to outside, he could see it, closed and firm in its frame but both duel locks were open, latches flipped back and left that way as if someone had made a quick exit from the ship. Or, Bill though cautiously as he stepped toward the door in inspection, someone was let on board.

Bill's hand slipped off the lever to his side. He knew Tad wouldn't go through all this just to abandon the ship in the dead of night. He must have left the hatch open for someone else.

“Ford...”

Bill's grip tightened around the gun in his hand, partly forgotten about in his search. He felt as though he was one step behind Tad's plan at all times and was unsure of where this game of cat and mouse was headed. He saw no one present, no drawn out shadows of anyone hiding around corners. There were no hushed voices or heavy breathing. Bill's fingers twitched but he held them at his sides. Where on his ship would an old bag of bones go with the help of Strange, he wondered.

“Dipper-” Bill's dark gaze snapped up, eyes narrowing as he stared down the maze of hallways which eventually lead back to his cabin.

Bill's feet almost acted on their own, jerking into forward before he could stop himself. The heel of his booth scuffed and squeaked against the metal floor. No, he quickly reigning himself back under control. That would make for an obvious trap. A poorly thought out one, Bill surmised and he worked it out in his mind. It was far too easy. Tad wouldn't go through all this effort for such an obvious ambush.

It pained him greatly to leave his Pine Tree under the watch of Teeth, whom he was starting to doubt, but there were other places on this ship more likely to find either Ford or Tad.

There was no uncertainty, Ford must be on board. Bill knew this. They two had been planning this all along and wouldn't wait a moment too long for Bill to discover them.

Bill grit his teeth and grunted in a low tone. He turned from the direction of his own cabin. Tad must have snuck Ford onto the ship and put him somewhere, sent him somewhere. The brig, the gun deck. Wherever he was, Bill would find him. He'd end Ford once and for all. Dispatching Tad's meaningless life was now a pleasurable addition.

Bill made his way from the hatch, slowly edging across deck. His eye squinted in the dim light, searching for the finest of movement in the glow of orange and yellow electrical bulbs. Inch by inch he crept down the long hallway, listening for distant sounds, a voice, anything. Once reaching the steep staircase down into the bowels of the ship, Bill stopped. He placed a hand on the railing, looking down into the darkness below. There was no where else he could be hiding. Somewhere down there, Bill was certain, Ford was waiting.

He started to take the first steps down towards the boilers. Bill wondered how honest Tad was being with dear Stanford. Whether he'd admitted to knowing of Dipper's safety or if there was a veil of lies surrounding his nephew. It was impossible for him to say, but he wouldn't put it passed Tad to lie, to paint a picture of torture and death in order to properly motivate the uncle and protector. The idea of Dipper, bloody and battered, and locked in a cell was very persuasive in pitting Ford against Bill.

As was the lewd image of Dipper blissfully sleeping in the Captain's bed.

Whatever their plan, Bill didn't want to be taken by surprise again. So far there had been no sign of anyone in the hall, he hadn't come across any sign of conscious life since leaving his cabin, not from the bridge to the hull. Their ambush must lay deeper within the ship, drawing him down into tight quarters where he was at a disadvantage from the low light and uneven, grated floors.

Having a bullet graze his arm did a good job at temporarily distract Bill from the swelling pain in his knee which hindered his walking earlier in the day. He hadn't even thought about the tight muscle and click of bone. Now, he hoped he could forget it again, not wanting to be caught on weak legs.

And Tad knew of it... He'd seen him hobble through his own cabin. It was a flaw that was trying to be exploited. Bill grit his teeth and descended the stairs, forcing any discomfort he felt to the back of his mind like it didn't exist.

He could still best an old bag of bones in a fight. Especially one Bill had left with a new hole in his body the last time they were together. Bill hoped it had been painful.

Toe for toe, he crept through the darkness. The weight of his gun felt heavy in his palm. Bill's fingers squeezed the handle. The closer he got to the boilers, the darker the area became, shadows playing off the large piped and gas tanks. The air grew warm with steam and hot metal. There were many places to hide down there, many ways to avoid being seen, and there was a difficulty that came with aiming straight. A gun fight was not idea here. Bill frowned. They would have a far bigger problem on their hands if a tray bullet struck a tankard of gas or electrical line.

Pipes clanged and diverted his attention. Bill hissed between his teeth, patience wearing thin as he hunted through the small gaps and cat walks which lead over large machines. If Ford was down here, he was playing a fine game of hide and seek, and Bill had enough of it.

“Come on out, Fordsie,” Bill sang with a subtle chuckle in his voice. He glanced over his shoulder to check behind. “I know you're here, you blasted Fuck.”

As if Bill's desire had pulled him from the very abyss, a figure stepped from the shadows a confident and unafraid air in each step. Stanford Pines, in the flesh. Much to Bill's distaste, the man stood with an overall sturdy nature that outshone his age or any past injury. The man seemed to be indestructible, kept in peek life by sheer willpower and stubbornness. Looking no worse for wear than before taking a bullet to the thigh. Bill truly hated him.

Ford took a step forward, slowly beginning to close the wide berth between them. He let his arms rest by his sides, calm and collected. Though it was quiet obvious he kept a holster under his greatcoat, the straps showing across his chest as he moved and brushed the tan brown of the fabric out of place. Bill didn't underestimate Ford's readiness to die here for the sake of his nephew. In fact, he was counting on it, hoping for it.

The expression Ford wore was fitting, a murderous frown creased his features, pulling deep lines in the skin which left dark shadows around his eyes. His lips turned down, threatening to show teeth and gum like a rabid dog.

Bill forced a wide smile in greeting, enjoying how it made his old friend visibly twitch and almost break his reserved control. He allowed himself one full second to appreciate the scene before him, the patience and lingering tension of hatred and revenge. It was palpable in its heady cloud. The calm before the storm. The point of no return. The moment right before two men tried to kill each other like animals, and Bill already had his gun drawn.

“Welcome aboard my ship, Sixer. How do you like it?” Bill asked, jabbing a little cheery tone towards Ford.

“Cut your shit, Cipher!” he responded, anger thick in his voice. “Give me back my nephew!”

Bill hummed in thought, unable to help himself. “Nephew? Do you have a nephew?”

“I know he's alive, and I know he's here!” Ford yelled, wavering with emotion slightly. He swallowed and brushed his coat open, daring to draw his own weapons. “Let him go. Your fight is with me.”

“You're right, it is. But...” Bill shrugged, making a broad gesture with his hands. “I think the little Pine Tree is going to stay with me. After everything I've done to him, I think he wants to stay.”

The look on Ford's face was priceless right then, worthy of a portrait. The way the colour drained to a pale white, the way his lips parted in a speechless and shocked fashion. Ford's eyes widened a fraction before narrowing tightly behind his thick glasses.

“_What_ did you do to, Mason? Bill, I swear to God, I will take you apart if you've hurt him!” Ford snapped. In one fluid motion he pulled his gun from the side holster strapped to his ribs. It was cocked and aimed in a straight line for Bill. The pirate didn't flinch or move out of the way. He stood his ground, puffed out his chest and laughed. The sound bounced off the tankards and walls, loudly echoing throughout the boiler room.

“What didn't I do?” he snickered. “With all that soft skin, the kid bruises like a peach. Breaks so easily...”

“You sick bastard! He's hardly passed twenty-”

“Age didn't stop you from taking my eye, now did it Ford! Remember? Want me to return the gesture and repay you with your precious nephew's. It'd be a shame because they are such a pretty colour.”

Ford didn't fire his gun. Pure animalistic rage over took his rational logistic mind. He cried out in a wordless mess of sound and anger, charging toward Bill on heavy feet. The sprint forward brought the two in close range. Bill allowed it to happen, choosing not to simply shoot Ford as he approached. Instead, he back peddled and spun on his heels to stay at arms length. Over and over, that short space was repeatedly breached as Ford swung at him, a closed fist hissing through the air in front of Bill's nose.

Their guns were stowed, tucked away, more of a detriment than useful in a fist fight of this nature. There was no range or aim for guns, no distance to take a clear shot. As nice as a point blank bullet to the gut would be, there would be a struggle and Bill wouldn't risk having it turned on himself. He responded with a boxing stance and a quick jab to Ford's side.

He tried to protect his injured arm but it was impossible. Hiding it to the side limited him. And Ford could see that, the way he favoured his good side and only swung out with that arm. A hooked elbow caught his upper arm, connecting with the fresh stitches. Pain shot up Bill's arm, the muscles constricted and his shoulder dropped. A guttural croak was forced from him as the elbow hit him. He stumbled to the side.

Breaths come to him in staggered gasps. It was such a sharp, sudden pain that it felt like taking a bullet all over again. Teeth bared, Bill kicked out with the heel of his boot and kicked Ford, aiming hopefully for the weeks old thigh wound.

Both men parted. Bill's hand came up to grab at his arm. His fingers enclosed over the throbbing muscles and found a wetness that was quickly soaking through his loose shirt. It was hot and sticky. A stitch or two had either ripped apart, or the skin in between each carefully woven knot had pulled open. The blood was slow but present and problematic.

Bill swore through clenched teeth, sending spit flying. He watched Ford retreat behind a tank, out of sight to hide in the illusion of a safety.

“You aren't getting away from me, Stanford!” Bill hollered. Sliding back for his own temporary retreat, he pressed his back to the cool metal wall. He flexed his fingers around his arm and groaned as he re-tightened his grip. The pain was duller now but still left his whole arm trembling and clumsy. Bill took a slow, controlled breath. “Was that the best you can do? Are you just going to run away like a coward?”

Bill shifted, his boot tapped into a stash of metal repair parts. The pipes and brackets scattered and rolled across the floor at his feet. He crouched down slowly. His fingers curled around the smooth shaft of a lead pipe.

“I don't care how you got on board, but I can promise you that you're not getting off my ship alive. Not this time.”

He could hear Ford's movements, dodging between hiding place to hiding place, trying to throw Bill off track. But it wouldn't work, Bill bolted from the wall with the lead pipe gripped tightly in hand. He followed the sound better than by sight, the shadows blurring the edges of his surroundings in a frustratingly thick blackness that would inevitably confuse him until his sight fully adjusted to the low light.

“Face me, Ford,” Bill said. “Maybe before you die, I'll let you see your precious little nephew – show you all the pretty bruises I gave him.”

A boot against the grated floor, Ford was behind him now. Bill turned and swung the lead pipe. It cut through the air with a clear swipe. The hard metal tip barely missed the man's head. Ford bulked, moving away from the pipe's range but Bill perused him. He swung it back hand and around again like a bat. The solid lead struck Ford's shoulder. Then again, hitting him in the lower back with a heavy impact that sent him to the floor. Bill laughed, amused by the sight of his old and once dear friend collapsed at his feet. He used the pipe and gave Ford a quick, aggressive jab to the gut, winding him and leaving him gasping for air.

Bill was overcome with the urge to pummel the man to death, to break every bone one by one from toe to skull, dragging out Ford's death with each slow and brutal hit. He swore and cursed at him, smiled as Ford writhed on the floor and cried out in pain. Bill started easy enough, taking one overhead swing straight downwards. The heavy pipe head struck across Ford's hand, crushing his knuckles against the grates. Bones cracked, knuckles popped. Bill's laughter turned hysterical, smiling at the sight of the crooked, broken fingers. Four out of Ford's six.

“What did you think you'd accomplish, Ford? You show up, alone. Trusting, Strange, of all people. Did you really think you'd beat me, old man?” Bill asked. He leaned down, mockingly waiting for a verbal response but only heard the pained whine catching in Ford's throat. “You're not getting out of here. And you're not taking Pine Tree away from me.”

If he could promise anything, it was that.

Ford mumbled under his breath, an incoherent jumble of sounds that were over all meaningless. Bill smirked. “What was that?” he asked, jostling the man with the toe of his boot. “Got something to say to me? Spit it out already.”

“...you... can-fuck...” Ford closed his eyes tightly, struggling to breath through the pain in his hand as if he could mentally separate himself from the feeling. “You can kill me, but let Mason go.”

“How heroic.” Bill placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I'm really moved.”

Bill was circling Ford, casually deciding what to break next when there was the sound of foot steps, more than one set. They were uneven and scattered, as if one of the parties were hobbling or being pulled along against their will. There was the harsh sound of banging metal and a young voice crying in agony. Bill's head snapped towards that sound, eyes locked into the dimly lit room, waiting for there to be any sign of their guests. The pipe shook with how hard he grasp onto it.

Ford responded to the noise of the young voice gasping and crying out into the echoing hallways. He pulled himself, as far as he could manage, to follow Bill's sight line.

It did not take long. Back lit shapes approached the boiler room from the main hall, coming into focus slowly as they walked deeper inside. The easily distinguishable form of Tad became apparent first, his height and build a dead give away even in the dark. Beside him, half bent and being dragged by the scruff of the neck was the wiry, thin limb body of Dipper. Bill felt a coldness weigh in his chest, a mix of shock and uncertainty. He should have expected this to happen, should have seen it coming. However, he'd been too sidetracked and drawn to Ford. The kid had been a fleeting thought at best.

Dipper whined as he was dragged forward, held up by the hair and made to stand. He looked far from whole, made very clear as he was pulled to a full standing position. Bill could see it all. Ford too, as he rolled over on the floor to gaze at his nephew in fear and worry.

Instead of the tired, if a little angry, young man Bill left in the cabin not long ago, he was looking into the beaten face of a terrified victim. Dark blotches of quickly forming bruises littered the curve of Dipper's cheek, running up to his temple. His right eye was swelling, blackened from whatever Tad inflicted on him. Bill bared his teeth, personally offended by the marked up skin and the way Dipper was gasping for air through parted lips.

Blood was running in long streams from his nose and split lip, dripping and running over his chin to messily stain and dirty his yellow shirt. He made an unpleasant choking sound as he tried to swallow, throat gurgling on his own blood. Dipper coughed and spat up the thick red liquid onto himself.

“Mason!” Ford cried. He made a quick attempt, driven by love for his nephew, to crawl forward. “Strange, let him go. We had a deal. Let my nephew go!”

Bill pressed the head of the lead pipe into a corner of Ford's greatcoat, pinning the fabric to the floor.

“Stay put there, Fordsie...” he said, voice strained. The sight of Dipper, bloody and battered, made him vibrate with rage. He looked to Tad, unsure of what would happen next. Cautious and wary, he addressed him, “Tad, care to explain yourself?”

Bill used every ounce of self control he had left to keep a level head. He didn't want to act too quickly and get Dipper caught in any cross fire. But still, the blood and bruises made Bill want to set Tad a light and burn him alive. He schooled his expression, keeping all murderous intent to the cold look in his eye.

Tad held Dipper in front of himself like a dead weight human shield. His other hand held a gun which glinted in the low light whenever Tad adjusted his aim against Dipper's ribs. He gave Bill an annoyed glance before making a small gesture towards Ford with his gun.

“Tying up loose ends,” he said. “You waste unimaginable resources on this ship hunting for this man only to hightail it across the country with his nephew on some hogwash kidnapping plot. You exhaust the crew and completely run havoc. Bill, this ends now. I told you this boy would cause us nothing but problems and I was right.”

“You arranged all this then,” Bill prompted, knowing full well Tad was behind it. He didn't need it confirmed. He was so simple as to need it explained in detail. However, if he kept Tad talking, he could come up with his next coarse of action.

“Of course, I was.”

“Because of Ford-”

“Because you're an absolute moron! Kill them both and be done with this already. You can't drag it out forever because you have some flight of fancy-”

“I can do as I please. This is my ship.”

“This is _my_ ship!” Tad yelled, a stern look on his face. It was the closest he got to showing real emotion, a slight twitch of the brow that bypassed simple annoyance. It was the tick of repressed anger and resentment. A rare sight, one that did not bode well.

Bill stepped over Ford, eye locked on Tad. He set his jaw and stood firm. “You talk mutiny, Taddy boy.”

“Not at all Captain. My duty is to make sure you do your job. So act like the bloody Captain and do what's necessary,” Tad said. He moved, roughly jostling Dipper in his grasp. The gun was pulled from his ribs to press hard against the side of his head. “Kill them, Bill, or I will do it for you.”

There was a pause, a lone heartbeat where no one moved. Bill held his breath. His eye stayed firmly held by Tad for a long while, each challenging the other in a silent battle for dominance. It was a dangerous game, to see who would move first. If Tad broke, Dipper was dead. Bill lifted his chin and suppressed the twitch that was his trigger finger. How he would love to shoot the man right between the eyes.

As the silence lingered, Bill finally let himself glance at Dipper. The boy looked barely conscious, his eyes unable to focus through the blur of tears and shadow. His head kept bobbing but wasn't allowed to drop. With a heavy weight in his chest, Bill made up his mind.

“Alright.” Bill let go of the lead pipe, ignoring how it loudly clattered to the floor. He moved slow, letting Tad see exactly what he was doing ever inch of the way. He lifted his foot and moved drew the long knife tucked down the side of his boot.

“You want him dead, give him to me then,” Bill said simply. He held out his arm, palm outstretched in request. “I'll do it right now.”

“No!” Ford yelled. He begged and pleaded for Dipper's life, for him to be let go. He asked for mercy, offered his own life in exchange if he had to. “Bill! Don't do this!”

Dipper responded to the voices around him, recognizing his uncle and Bill just beyond the ringing in his head. They sounded muddled and gargled, like he was submerged in water. His eyes blinked and tried to look at him but the gaze fell short, staring off into the darkness.

“...bill...” Dipper mouthed softly, as if asking for his help, for protection and care.

Bill didn't react and waited patiently for Tad to make his decision. There was a moment of hesitation on his mate's part, which was reasonable given how attached Bill seemed to the kid after the growing time they'd spent together. Tad was skeptical and didn't trust him. So, Bill pushed just a little further.

“You want me to. Hand him over.”

Tad accepted the offer, pushing Dipper head first in Bill's direction. “Glad you're coming to your senses.”

He watched as the kid was caught roughly and twisted in Bill's grip. Long arms scrambled in confusion to grab onto something for balance, but in the end all Dipper could do was let himself be pinned, back to chest, with Bill. Dipper gasp, head falling back against his shoulder as he was manipulated to stand there.

Bill walked backwards, offering Ford a view to his nephew's death as well. The old man was still trying to crawl along the floor and reach out to them. “I told you to stay put,” Bill said before Ford got too close.

He adjusted his grip on Dipper more gently. His hand took him by the neck, tracing along the smooth lines up before curling along his jaw. He pulled his head back, exposing his throat. The kid was finally starting to realize what was happening. Dipper's whole body was shaking wildly, knees barely holding. Nails were being scratched along Bill's forearm, scraping and biting into the skin. That soft little voice was babbling, repeating his name in a desperate plea for understanding, for an explanation, to be told it was all an act or lie. Bill pitied the innocence of the little Sapling, the naivety.

Bill dipped his head lower, close so their cheeks could brush. He let out a light breath that warmed the kid's skin. When Bill spoke low for Dipper to hear, he could taste the salt from free flowing tears.

“Be still now, Pine Tree,” Bill said. Dipper's heart rate was sky rocketing, fluttering wildly under the palm for Bill's hand. He held him tight and let his lips drag over the delicate skin on his cheek.

He brought the knife up to Dipper's neck. Ford was screaming, raising to his knees, looking as though he was about to pounce on them and intervene.

“Tad, hold him,” Bill instructed.

Without question, Tad moved to stand behind Ford. He took hold of the man's coat and pressed the gun against his hairline.

“B-Bill, please,” Dipper's voice cracked as he cried. He repeatedly choked out “please, don't” like a scratched record. He tried to shake his head and pull away but Bill forced him still again.

He gave the knife a flourishing little spin, catching light on the smooth metal face. He held Dipper tight and firm against his shoulder. Bill hushed him as he brought the knife close. The sharp edge pressing into skin. He closed his eye.

Bill gave strangled grunt as he pulled the knife clean back, cutting deeply through flesh. The knife was sharp and didn't meet any resistance. He swung his arm back, sending drop of blood to rain to the floor in a wide arc.

In the back of Bill's mind, maybe he heard Ford's heartbroken screams. But it all faded away, blocked from his senses. All Bill could see or feel was the body in his arms spasm as it gasped for air. Bill dropped the knife, fingers feeling number and useless. He ran his fingers through Dipper's bangs, placed a kiss to his brow. Then gently, he knelt and laid Dipper to the floor.

He watched his Pine Tree grab at his own neck, paralyzed by the sight of blood on his hands and the feeling of the warm wetness coating his skin. Dipper looked at the red that coated his fingers tips, then up at Bill. There was so much confusion on his face. But soon, those wide eyes rolled back and Dipper head fell to the floor with a heavy thud.

Bill stood back up, wiping a bloody hand on his pant leg. Slowly he turned to face Tad and For. He curled his hands behind his back, making tight fists. He stood, indifferent and callous.

“Now,” he addressed them both. “Where were we?”

Tad held his head high, looking finally satisfied. He made a small gesture to Ford. The old man had fallen silent suddenly, staring at his nephew a few feet away, longing to hold him but couldn't move from where he knelt. Shock and unbelieving of what he'd just witnessed.

“Right,” Bill clicked his tongue in thought. “Ford's not so stupid as to come here alone. Who else did you let onto _my_ ship, Tad?”

“No one-”

“Bullshit! Where Ford goes, his ridiculous brother isn't too far behind.”

“He came alone,” Tad persisted. Perhaps he honestly didn't know about Stanley, or it was another lie. It didn't matter which. Bill fixed him with a direct order.

“The other Pines in on this ship and I want him found!” Bill drew a gun from its holster. “I will deal with Ford. Now, go! That's an order. Or, do you want to end up with more than a few bullet holes in your chest, Strange?”

“Yes, sir. Captain,” Tad said, stressing the title like it was a sour taste on his tongue. He dropped Ford to the floor with an aggressive shove forward.

Bill watched Tad retreat into the hull. The slim shadow stalking away into the halls like a hungry snake. The foot falls echoed off into the distance until they disappeared among the whirring machinery.

He let out a tight breath and pulled his lips into a thin line. He picked up the lead pipe once more, favouring its weight and range. Bill rolled it in his palm, ignoring how the smooth metal felt sticky with sweat and blood. In silence he stepped around Ford's bent over body, moving in a small half circle. The man was sobbing, horribly crying that shook his shoulders as though he having a seizure. It was ugly and disgusting. Bill scoffed, watching as Ford reached out a trembling hand towards Dipper's bare foot. They were too far part to touch, despite Ford's tall stature and long limbs. He cried for his nephew's life, mourned him, and the efforts he put in to rescue him.

Although Bill had to applaud Ford's resolution and struggles. Much as he expected, Ford had chased him over hundreds, almost a thousand miles, put his faith in a pirate for help, conspired with the Navy, and climbed onto an air ship seemingly alone and practically unarmed – all to safe his nephew's life.

Ford must have known he'd die here. He couldn't have been nonsensical enough to think he'd be able to walk away again. It was quite the story, one Bill could at the very least admire. He touched the floor in front of Ford with the head of the pipe, warning him wordlessly not to move any closer to Dipper 's body than he already was.

“Why is Stanley on my ship, Ford?” Bill asked, more curious than concerned. Of course he wasn't pleased that there were no doubt multiple Pines onboard his ship. It ran the risk of sabotage and destruction. For all he knew, at any moment the whole craft could plummet from the sky.

Ford's crying hiccuped to a slow stop. He cast his head down and curled in on himself. “He... was to find, Dipper... in case we were lied to. While I kept you busy... they would have gotten off the ship.”

“I see...” Bill hummed in acknowledgement. He was momentarily taken aback by the use of Dipper's nickname coming from Ford. It was the first time Bill had heard him use it. The informal manner and affection it took was something Bill thought Ford incapable of.

Still, he had to guess it took strong love and affection to come here and do as he did. “You're quite the martyr, Ford. Sacrificing yourself for your family. It's a shame you're all going to die here now. First you, then Tad will find your brother. Then I kill Tad.”

Ford's breath was haggard and forced. He grit his teeth, seething through the pain and sorrow he felt. The betrayal and death that he only caused himself by leaving Bill alive all those years ago. He blamed Bill, but also himself for causing Dipper's death.

Every part of him didn't want to see Bill live another day. He would never stand for it or be satisfied that he could be arrested and held in a prison. It would bring him no joy to see the pirate hung for his crimes. Nothing would bring Ford relief from his pain, not until Bill was cold and lifeless by his own hand. His heart clenched in his chest, feeling as though it were stone, heavy and dead.

His good hand slid into the folds of his coat, silent and slow. They pushed passed the folds of his coat, seeking out the hook of his gun holster strapped to his side. The buckle was carefully pulled free. The gun drawn out of its pocket.

Moving fast, Ford pulled his arm back and through his entire weight into one aggressive swing. The handle of the gun, solid and hard, struck Bill across the knee cap. There was a crack under the pressure, bone fracturing, and Bill growled in his own pain. He stumbled back, knee buckling and useless. Bill limped backwards to get away, almost falling in the process.

It wasn't much, but Ford was out of range of the pipe, able to roll over and find his footing. He raised the gun and took a wildly blank shot in the dark, turning for Bill and prayed for good aim. The bullet whizzed passed Bill's body, missing him but not by much. The loud firing irrupted the small space into a ringing, rumble of vibrations.

The bullet struck a metal tankard, punching a hole through its side. A heavy steam hissed from the hole left behind, pillowing out into the room as a dark cloud. It was hot and obstructive. Ford tried to take aim once more but Bill was already retreating for cover. He easily disappeared into the darkness and growing steam cloud.

Ford cursed and threw himself into the fog in pursuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was mentally exhausting to write. And we're not done yet! It's getting climax-y~ The next chapter will be hopefully soon.
> 
> Please be kind~ This has definitely been an exercise in writing fight scenes.


	14. Chapter 14

Tad involuntarily flinched, hearing the sound of gun fire. It was a flurry of noise, loud and destructive as a fight raged on deep in the hull of the ship. Despite the distance, the ringing of metal as the shots broke out was unmistakably clear. He paused in his actions, turning back to the stairs which lead down to the boilers. Hearing the gun shots made the bottom of his stomach drop with a tentative worry. Tad cursed under his breath. Those idiots were going to blow up the ship with everyone still on board, He was sure of it.

He had yet to find any sign of the second Pines brother, not a hair or tail. He partly believed it to be a wild good chase in and of itself. Though a rational voice in his head did believe that Bill was right, and that Ford didn't come here alone. A small lapse in judgment, but one Tad would rectify. So, he abandoned the search, making a quick decision to end the fight between Bill and Ford before the whole place went up in fireball of gas and smoke.

He ran. Jumping steps until he reached the bottom landing. The grated metal floor rang out under his boots, adding to the harsh sounds filling the boilers. Each step mixing with the clang of machinery. Tad lifted his weapon, keeping the gun close to his body. It wasn't a matter of who he shot, as long as one of the two men died. The other would be able to follow suit later on.

He never planned to kill Bill. On the contrary, Bill was more useful alive and comfortable in place as Captain. Death was purely a backup.

Tad didn't wish to be Captain or to fully take over the ship. For years he'd been able to do as he pleased, get whatever he wanted.

Bill was clever and determined, admirably so. However, he was easily persuaded by money and praise. It never took much for Tad to suggest alterations to Bill's plans, to alter them and manipulate them. But then Ford's location was confirmed, completely by fluke that the name had come up in publication. The next thing he knew, they were off for Oregon. A continuation of their ridiculous prancing about the country for a bloody manhunt.

It had gotten rapidly problematic, purely for Tad.

Resources were being used up chasing rumours, valuable manpower, and time – years. It needed to end.

However, Bill had done exactly what Bill always does. He changed his mind, dragging out his revenge in an unnecessarily elaborate fashion. Tad hadn't been able to get a word in after that night, all because of a pair of wide eyes and skinny frame.

It hadn't been hard to get word out to the right people, only a little time and patience. A few well laid telegraphs and Ford was on their trail. Tad went out of his way to bring the fight to Bill's doorstep. Everything was suppose to be wrapped up and buried neatly. Until the kid escape his cell. A night that felt much longer passed than it really was.

Tad blamed himself. It had been him to take the kid to Bill's cabin, thrusting them into tight quarters. He should have broken those long legs the second he found them kicking out the ceiling vent. Tad should have left him bloodied and beaten, locked up in a storage closet, the kitchen's pantry, anywhere but with Bill.

Yet he'd been tired and careless. He ignored how Bill looked the boy over. It was the same way he appraised art and jewellery, with a keen eye that noticed every flaw but also every perfection. Tad hated it deeply. He wished he could have killed Bill's dear, sweet Pine Tree himself. Thankfully, Bill had a moment of clarity. He'd done away with the the younger Pines for good. Personally, Tad wouldn't have made it so mercifully quick.

He crept into the boilers slowly, slinking around the piped and tankards to blend into the shadows. It was dark and the air was hot with a thick cloud of steam. Sight was difficult passed a few feet. Tad inched onward with a little hesitation. He hand came out to feel for the wall, to guide himself.

The sound of gunfire ricocheted from the ceiling, distorting the original shot. Tad wasn't able to tell if he was moving toward or further away from the fight.

The frustrating maze of piped and steam left him believing he was running in circles. Tad yelled out in annoyance. He gave the wall a sideways punch.

The next turn about the room, Tad came to a sudden stop. His boot touched something sticky. Questioning, he crouched low, suspecting an oil leak. Instead, at his feet was a still drying patch of blood. It was harder to make out in the low light, but the colour was distinct. He glanced around, finding something amiss to the scene – a body or blood trail.

“Pines,” Tad growled in a low, suspicious tone.

The body of the brat was missing from where it had been discarded to bleed out and die. Moved or whisked away by an uncle who possessed an overly developed sense of bravery and heroism.

Tad stood, adjusting his grip on the gun. He stepped over the small puddle. At any moment he expected to find someone hiding in wait for him. He hadn't been gone long. Surely an old man like Stanley wouldn't have been able to get far with the added weight of a dead body. It was impossible for them to have made it off the ship, or to have made it passed Tad as he prowled the halls. They were here, somewhere, laying in wait for a chance to escape. Perhaps even to attack. It was more than possible Stanley was there to assist Ford in fighting Bill. Tad had to consider all his options as he stalked forward in the dark.

His lungs burned from the heat of the steam. His skin was beginning to feel slick with sweat and dampness from the mist. The pristine combing of his hair fell lax in the wet air, strands of black coming out of place and sticking to Tad's forehead and temples.

Another gun shot broke through the room, followed by the screaming curse of Bill's voice. It was muffled, barely recognizable, but Tad could follow it's location. He turned around. The two were fighting below in the catwalks. It was a continuous string of dead ends down there. Of course Bill would be completely foolish as to get himself stuck in such a place, Tad thought.

He headed for them, ready to ignore Stanley in favour of confirming Ford's inevitable death and perhaps Bill's as well.

As Tad moved passed a tank, a blindingly sharp pain took over his body. The suddenness of the jolt threw him backwards into the wall, gasping for the air that had been knocked out of his lungs. With each struggled inhale, the pain sparked in his chest. For a moment, he was too shocked to react or even cry out. His voice croaked in the back of his throat, making unintelligible gargling sounds. His body trembled. There was a metal clatter as his gun slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor.

Tad's back struck the wall, the heated metal feeling almost cold to his skin. He locked his knees and pressed himself against the wall, allowing it to hold him up despite how his body wanted to collapse and sink to the floor. With a shaking hand, Tad grabbed at the source of his pain. His fingertips found his side, the handle of a knife protruding from it just below his ribs. He blinked his eyes and stared down at the knife in surprise. He touched the handle, dumbly hoping it was a hallucination.

Pain. The feeling shot through him as his muscles moved against the metal blade. Tad breathed hard, nostrils flaring. He looked up into the dark to face his assailant. He was expecting to find the brother, expected to see the older face and vengeful glare of Stanley Pines. However, it wasn't him at all. There was no older gentleman with grey hair and anger woven into his expression. He didn't even find Bill standing over him with a disappointed look in his eye as he killed his first mate. No, instead Tad was greeted by the equally shocked face of Dipper.

The brat met his eye, backing away into the mist as if he would disappear like a ghost. He looked scared, shocked by his own actions. He trembled as he weakly retreated from Tad's reach. As he should. Tad grunted and force himself to stand, stab wound be damned.

The sharp knife twisted in his side, sending another wave of pain through his body that almost knocked Tad to the floor. He grabbed the handle firmly, panting from the effort. It was guttural and deep, Tad gave a cry of pain and pulled the knife out. The sharp blade withdrew from his skin with little resistance. Blood covered the metal, Tad's fingers. It quickly started to soak through the side of his shirt.

Tad's hands shook, almost dropping the knife, but he held onto it tight. His other came to press against the wound, trying to hold in the blood. It was hot as it seeped between his fingers. He took an uneven step towards the kid.

“-the hell,” he grunted. “You're not dead? Why are you not dead?”

Dipper took a step back for every one Tad took forward. His shock was fading, being over run with the instinctual need to run. Panicked, Dipper stumbled over his own feet in order to get away.

He didn't get far. Vision still spotted, threatening to take his sight completely, Dipper grabbed for the piped. He pulled himself along when his legs wanted to give out. Head spinning, blood rushing in his ears, he tried to find some safety.

His bare feet tripped over the vented slots in the floor. Unable to stop it, Dipper fell to the floor. His arms cradled his body, cushioning the fall only slightly. There was a solid thunk as his chin hit the metal, knocking his teeth together. His brain rattled, bringing back the clouded whirl of unconscious.

Everything hurt, each small pain indistinguishable from the next. It all blended into one dizzying throb. As he opened his eyes and only saw the smooth metal in front of his face, there was the strange sense that time had stopped. His fast heartbeat was slow in his mind, sluggish and lingering with each second. His arms and leg became heavy. He was positive he was on the brink of another black out, which would only leave him vulnerable and defenceless under Tad's rage.

The air was too hot, too thick and Dipper felt like he couldn't breath. He felt like he was dying, drowning on dry land. He inhaled and tasted the coppery flavour of blood. It made him want to retch and heave. Dipper cough on his own blood, spitting as it touched his lips and tongue.

“How is it you Pines don't know how to die?” Tad snarled, brandishing the knife in Dipper's direction.

Dipper pushed himself to his side, letting his useless body weight do the work of rolling him over. He watched Tad approach on unstable legs. Every fibre of his being said to run, run for his life. However, nothing reacted to such an order. Pathetically, Dipper lay there on the floor, feeling too heavy to stand and too dizzy to see clearly. He closed his eyes tight, waiting for the blow that would end his life.

Tad wobbled forward, hand pressing hard against the bleeding wound at his side. “You little shit... I should have killed you the very day you were brought on board,” he said.

He came to a stop, towering over the brat. Tad brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, ignoring how the sweat ran along his brow. Calmly, he smiled. Finally, he could feel satisfied. The opportunity to end the brat's worthless life had offering itself to him on a platter, and Tad was going to find great pleasure in accepting it. He smoothed down his hair, a familiar neutral expression crossing his face. With a small adjustment, the knife was poised and ready to strike. Tad pulled his arm back, leaning forward.

A solid punch to the jaw whipped his head to the side. There was an audible crack, bone crunched under the impact. Tad stumbled to the side, following the momentum of the hit. He fell to the floor, barely making it to catch himself on one arm. His mouth immediately started to fill with blood. It coated his tongue and teeth with a sharp taste. One of his molars rolled in broken chunks across his tongue like little pebbles. Tad spat them out onto the floor under him.

His vision slowly started to clear from the sudden impact which left blackness haloing everything he saw. Tad blinked and turned his head to look over his shoulder. Planted to the floor in a wide stance, glowering like some immovable giant, stood whom Tad could only assume was Stanley Pines. Twin brothers, as he'd been told. The two men looked so similar that in the steamy shadows of the boiler room, Tad would have easily mistaken one for the other.

Where details were lost in the darkness, the only real differences Tad could see, or even start to take in, were the difference in clothes and the lack of limp on one leg. Instead this twin had a heavy padded upper body, a protective wrapping over one shoulder to case an older injury. Though Tad hardly cared. He would be dead soon enough too, Tad thought as he ran his tongue over his blood slick teeth. He rolled to lift himself up.

With a close eye on the pirate Stan squared off his shoulders and rocked on the balls of his feet, waiting for a fight. His fingers flexed his fingers in the loops of his brass knuckles, his weapon of choice for a close quarter brawl. He'd always been quite the boxer, a real champ back in his day. And even though the years had put a crick in his back and dulled his eyesight, he still knew how to hold his own. Stan positioned himself between his nephew and the pirate, protective and ready. He watched each movement the man made, each little turn of the knife, aware of the dangers the weapon could inflict.

Tad spat another large glob of blood and teeth fragments out onto the floor before he stood up. His movements were slow, impaired and staggered.

“You would have been better off staying down,” Stan commented with an air of egotistical confidence. He wasn't afraid of pirates. And he certainly didn't take kindly to those hell bend on murdering his family. Stan bent his knees in a boxing stance. Fists held up, he waited to see what Tad chose to do next.

“Stanley. The other Pines, I presume?” Tad struggled to hold himself up straight, although he made a decent effort at forcing his body to react as desired. Blood loss was starting to fog his judgment and leave him reeling, lost in the steam and heat. He swore internally, feeling the woozy sway of delirium. “So, you are here as well... I shouldn't be surprised, really. Not a problem... Bill will dispatch your brother soon enough. He'll then come for you.”

Stan nodded, already aware of this possibility. As much as he hated to think of his brother dying at the hands of the blasted pirate, it was something he had long come to terms with. It did not fight the truth or expect miracles to happen. He made a promise to Ford, that he would find Dipper, and save him. Anything beyond that was not for him to try and change. He was not to intervene. Not to seek him out to help, or to wish revenge, but to survive and see that Dipper made it home. Stan held his chin up high and proud.

Weapon or none, the significant difference in age, it didn't matter. Tad was heavily bleeding now, mind still recovering from a direct punch to the jaw. He held the knife out still, not backing down. He didn't engage Stan straight on, instead the two men inched closer, moving over the floor like a pair of circling dogs.

Tad ducked the first swing and the second. He returned it with a quick slash of his knife.

Stan was quick, jumping back and out of the way. He pivoted and move aside before another thrust of the blade caught him in the arm.

They moved like this, blocking hit for hit. Each man came close to successfully landing a blow when the other left a side vulnerable and open. More than once Tad's knife cut small holes into Stan's coat, snagging the fabric as it sliced the air.

He got Stan in the cheek, leaving a long, grisly cut from lip to his ear.

Tad was breathing hard, he took a swing at Stan's throat.

The boiler room erupted with the sound of a single gun shut. The deafening sound bounced off the metal.

Stan winced, jumping back. His brain felt like it was vibrating around the inside of his skull.

Something hit the floor with a clatter. Though through the echoing gun fire, it seemed to fall no heavier than a feather, light and delicate against the steel sheets. Tad's hands shook, empty and unresponsive. One came up to touch his chest. His fingers became wet, coated to the knuckle in red. Even in the dark room, the fresh blood was bright.

He sucked back a breath but found that it wouldn't come. Mouth open, Tad gasped. He lurch forward before finally falling, heavy and still to the floor.

Stan sees the man go down. He turns on his heels, ready to fight the new comer. He expects another pirate, perhaps Cipher himself. Instead, he was given a sight he wished never to have seen. One that chills his heart and makes it skip a beat. Before him, bloodied, shaken and scared, was his nephew. He looked to be barely standing, yet as still as a statue. Both of his arms were stretched out in front of him, Tad's discarded gun clutched in his grip. His hands weren't trembling, too far gone into shock to do so. It deeply left Stan afraid and he cautiously stepped around Dipper, not wanting to startle him.

Stan swallowed thickly, wary as he faced his nephew. He said his name barely above a whisper. Dipper didn't even looked at him, just staring through the empty air where Tad had been previously standing. His hands began to tremble but did not drop the gun.

“Kid...” Stan spoke softly. “It's alright now... You can... You can give me the gun now, Dipper. You did a good job.”

Dipper stiffened. His shoulder scrunching to his ears. Every muscle tightened, winding more and more. He closed his eyes. When Stan reached forward and gripped the gun, his hands fell away, letting it be taken. Dipper let his uncle have the gun. He didn't want it. He'd killed someone with it. When he opened his eyes again, all he could see was Tad's still body. It lay lifeless and silent among the shadows. Because of him, Dipper thought.

He couldn't justify this to himself. He would have died if not for Stan, or Ford, even Bill. He would have been killed. His body started to shake, knees wobbling where he stood. Stan touched him on the shoulder softly.

Dipper felt something inside him let go. He dropped to his knees and let out a scream, as loud and long as his lungs could manage. He screamed to let out all the anger, all the sadness, and all the pain he'd endured. Dipper tightly balled his hands into fists and began pummelling the floor. He was both a victim and a murderer.

When his voice gave out, he hiccuped on another lung full of air, and screamed again. Each time, over and over, they came shorter and softer, until Dipper fell over knees, crying and hyperventilating against the floor.

Stan was there at his side. He wrapped an arm gently across his back, easing him on the way. As Dipper cried, he silently held him, careful of the bruises and injuries that he could see. He let his nephew cry out and whimper words he didn't quite understand. In the rambling, for a moment, Stan thought he heard Ford's name. He shared a sympathetic thought for the other man. He sighed, heart breaking for his family. Then Dipper said something Stan did hear clearly.

“...Bill...”

Dipper whimpered around a heavy sob. He said the man's name over and over, confusion and hurt in his tone. There was a sensitivity to it that Stan couldn't place or even begin to unravel. The softness to it was an emotion the likes of a pirate did not deserve. All Stan knew was that he didn't approve of that man's name ever falling from his nephew's lips. He leaned over him protectively and assured him firmly,

“You're safe with me, Dipper. I'll get you out of here. He's never going to hurt you again.”

Stan swallowed down his guilt for leaving his brother behind. He tried to cox Dipper to stand. He slid an arm around his hips and helped lift Dipper to his feet. In a small trembling, needy voice, he heard him ask,

“Where's, Bill?”

He honestly didn't know. More over, he didn't care to know or stay to find out.

“Gone, and it's best we get gone too,” Stan said.

He didn't understand why, but as they made their way slowly from the boiler room, Dipper continued to cry out and told him to stop. It hurt his heart to do it, but Stan found himself practically carrying his nephew in order to get him somewhere safe. He didn't know why he was like this, what made him this way, but Stan didn't stop to let Dipper go. He moved him forward, step by step, doing whatever he could to keep him safe and to get him as far from this ship as he possibly could.

Bill was not happy.

He fell back into a railing, the only thing keeping him standing along the skinny catwalk. With every step his injured knee popped and cracked, the muscles screaming in protest and buckling when he tried to run. Every failed attempt left him in pain, leaving him to hobble along the walk with slow movements.

The lower level of the boilers were a branching runway of ladders and bridges. They connected storage rooms and tanks, housing the main electrical grip, water and gas. It was dark, almost impossibly so. Finding one's way was difficult without a lantern or functioning stringed lights but Bill had neither. How he'd managed to even make this far was a blur of activity. Between fighting and making a mad rush down a ladder, he wasn't even sure how he pulled it off. Each step was a blind push forward to gain some distance on Ford, to gather his thoughts and form a new plan.

The rear engines were close by, masking the sound of his boots on the hard floor grates. This also kept him from hearing anyone else, leaving himself open to be taken by surprise and jumped in the darkness. He grabbed the railing tighter, shifting his full weight to his now only good leg. Bill panted heavily, but the air was thick and wet with moisture. The warmth filled his lungs with the drowning weight of water and left him feeling heavy and lost. Bill snarled and ground his teeth together, cursing in a hushed voice.

He checked his gun and found it empty. To make it worse, he was running low on bullets already. What few bullets he'd shoved into his pockets were quickly dwindling, and Ford didn't even have one bloody hole in his fucking head. The only thing wrong with the man was a few measly broken bones in one hand.

Bill was going to have to be more resourceful. Like it or not, he couldn't keep firing wildly into the darkness. Sooner or later, the bullets would run out. He'd eventually be corners. However, he was no defenceless pray animal. For Bill, to be backed into a corner and surrounded was like trying to cage an angry lion. Get too close to and you'd be sacrificing more than a limb.

Besides, he'd kill himself before letting someone else get the pleasure.

He cut his loses and reloaded his gun to be ready. Ford was seconds away from closing in on him, and Bill wasn't about to let the bastard catch him off guard. However, this was as far as his leg would allow.

Bill hobbled along the railing in search of a spot to wait. The catwalk lead him to a dead end, lined with hot water tanks. He sighed heavily, a despondent, hollow emotion settling into his chest and he resolved to wait there. Sinking to the floor, back pressed into the railing and an uncomfortable valve, Bill closed his eye and accepted whatever would happen next. This was not a surrender, merely a play of patience and luck, a gamble.

The sounds around him blended into a constant hum. Bill relaxed to the wave of noise and vibrations. He allowed himself some rest there. He thought of his ship as he shuffled himself against a valve and the pipe. He appreciated every last function of each gauge and revelled in pride that he could Captain such a vessel. Every intricate and beautiful nut and bolt, the refined sheets of steal and lead. Its massive inner workings and mechanics. Its untimely, possible destruction.

Bill would rather it fall from the sky, a deadly mass of burning hydrogen and metal shrapnel, than to see it run by someone else.

He thought about Tad and how he hoped to kill him. Bill was not giving up on this desire, only delaying it long enough. He could have so easily shot the man already and been done with it. But then, at the time, Tad still had a use. Bill wouldn't have been able to handle Ford, his brother, and Tad. By now, with some luck, Tad should have hunted down Stanley. The brother would be dealt with so Bill didn't have to, freeing his mind up for other tasks.

For how clever the man acted, Tad wasn't as smart as he liked to think. He was easy to trick, to distract with a little slight of hand and an order which sent him away. Bill snickered a little to himself but it died on his lips.

When they meet again, Tad's usefulness will have run its course and Bill will kill him then. All this may have been purely business to Tad, but he'd gone and made it personal by including the Pines family. And Bill couldn't find it in him to forgive that kind of manipulation.

Bill's ears picked up on the muffled sound of feet dropping onto metal, the rattle under a heavy impact. It was barely noticeable above the engines, but he'd caught it. He adjusted his body position, being sure to sit up straight and hold his head high. Bill lifted his gun, holding the aim straight ahead of him. From there, he'd have a clear shot down the narrow catwalk. He squinted his eye in the dark, waiting for the first glimpse of Ford's tan coat.

He spared a fleeting thought to their past together, for the novelty of it all, but he hating how his gut twisted with unresolved emotion. Emotions he had been convinced were long dead and buried, adequately replaced by years of resentment and anger. Bill reminded himself that their past didn't matter now. Who they use to be, what they once meant to each other, friend or surrogate family pushed together by circumstance, it had ended. They were enemies now and that was never going to change, even in death.

The muffled sound of hesitant footsteps drew closer, only distinguished by creaks of the floor grates. Bill let out a slow, easy breath, steadying himself so not to shoot too quickly. It was all about timing. He had to be patient and wait.

He tried to hold back a cough, swallowing the warm in his chest to convince himself it was all in his head. He could taste the metal flavouring in the air, how the moisture warmed the rust spots along the railing and made everything smell like iron.

With the last few seconds of free thought running through his busy mind, Bill stopped thinking of either Ford or Tad. They drifted away, mourning the fantasy of returning to his cabin for a night of sleep, accompanied by the warm affection that was his Pine Tree. He regretted not indulging in holding the weight of that body in his arms more often, enjoying the heat of his skin and the press of their lips.

Bill smirked to himself, remembering how those wide eyes went from staring at him with such a fiery hatred, lighting up with a fire when they argued. How they would glass over in fear when threatened. Then, strangely, how they could manage to look back at him with honest to God admiration. Something Bill hadn't known of in years.

He couldn't decide which expression he liked more. But as he waited for Ford to finally round the bend, Bill decided that Dipper's most favourable look was when those eyes were half lidded with sleep and spent lust, looking up into Bill's face with a need for acknowledgement and attention, silently begging for acceptance and the closest thing to love the pirate could manage.

Bill told himself he would see the boy later, one way or another, even if it was because he'd be joining Dipper in the afterlife. Heaven or Hell, it didn't matter. Bill would hunt the boy's soul through purgatory if he had to do so.

Bill unconsciously wiped his left hand on his pant leg, smudging more blood over his palm than he was wiping away. The cut he had now, running from wrist to pinkie, was stretched wide open and was dripping thick streaks of red along his arm. He let the hand rest by his side.

Ford approached the catwalk with a calculated step. Even with his gun's present aim, he didn't fire immediately. Neither of them did, despite the clear shot. A deep rooted force inexplicably caused them to pause and stare the other down from a distance. Ford took a step closer but Bill didn't fire. Another, still nothing.

Tad was right, Bill thought with a slight mocking attitude toward himself. He did have trouble ending this little revenge plot. He smiled to hide how angry this made him, and gave a small laugh over these ridiculous emotions.

“Hello, Ford,” Bill greeted. He was genuinely surprised the old man hadn't shot him first, and tested the man's patience by speaking. Still, Ford kept approaching with slow even steps, even though there was no need. There was a clean line between them. Only a complete idiot would miss, or someone too scared to take a life. “What's the matter, trigger stuck? You've killed people before, don't pretend like you haven't-”

“Shut up, Bill,” Ford said forcefully. He kept his gun firmly aimed at Bill's chest. He held himself tall, although his broken hand was held against his body, useless and crippled. “I don't want to hear you say one more word.”

“Then why don't you shoot me?” Bill pressed. “Scared that if you'll kill me, I'll haunt your dreams until the day you die?”

“I said, shut up!” From all the anger he felt, Ford's hand started to shake, the gun losing its level aim.

Bill closed his mouth, intentionally letting an infuriatingly still verbal silence form in the small space between them. He held back all the antagonizing, cruel comments and insults that could push the man over the edge. They simply locked eyes and remained quiet. In some way, this was far worse than talking. Ford's face twitched in annoyance this way, becoming more agitated with each drawn out moment.

He blinked, breaking contact and stepped forward. He waited for Bill to start up again, to insult him and his family. He waited for there to be some slipped comment over how his nephew was left to bleed out and die, that his brother may be dead now too somewhere on the ship while Ford was here. It was impossible for Bill to actually remain silent.

The distance between them was closing. They were far too close now, within feet. Through the dark, they could make out each others features and expressions, could see the way the other bleed and shook in pain.

“Why couldn't you leave my family alone?” Ford asked, a nagging interest to his tone. It was a question he always wanted an answer to, had always been curious about.

Ford had spent years looking over his shoulder, watching his back, and waiting for the day Bill would come for him. He collected every piece of information he could about the blasted pirate, wrote it all down obsessively trying to build some type of defense. If he knew Bill perfectly, he could outsmart him. Except it never helped. Their paths always seemed to cross, more than once and far too close for comfort. It drove Ford into hiding. He hid his family and friends away and told them nothing about his past. It was suppose to keep everyone he cared for safe and alive. Now, Dipper was dead. Stan maybe as well. Then who was next. When would it stop.

Bill still held his tongue and stared back at him with a hard, narrow glare. That mockingly wide smirk was still plastered across his face, reaching from ear to ear. Ford use to find that smile a sign of deep intelligence, if a little cocky. Now it was only a show of arrogance and cruelty.

“Why, William?” Ford's voice cracked as he spoke Bill's give name. It wavered and there was a small hint of a tear forming for his old friend, as if this _William_ was a completely separate person, someone who Bill had murdered years ago, left in the wilderness to decay and rot. “Answer me... Just tell me!”

“Why?” Bill looked him over like he were dense.

“Yes, _why_ do all this, Bill? Why not just kill me when you had the chance. Why involve Dipper? Of all people...”

It was hardly a mystery, hardly deserve explanation. Still, Bill indulged him and gave Ford a reason for his grief and suffering. “Because you cared about him so much,” was his reply. “Obviously... I wanted you to suffer.”

“Suffer,” Ford parroted, uncertain and trying to understand. “All this, because of what happened-”

“You left me to die in the snow.”

“You single-handedly wiped out half the crew of the Axolotl! And all those innocent people...”

“And yet, you ended up being far more personal to me. Funny how that happens,” Bill relaxed back against the boiler tank, a valve poking him in the side. He ignored it, rolling his shoulders of their tension. He settled into an air of indifference, even though inside he was furious.

“It doesn't matter any more, Bill! This has to end right now!”

Bill pressed his blood slick hand against the tank's release valve. The smooth, warm metal slipped in his grip a little as he turned it. It didn't take much, and the vent opened. There was a loud, rattle within the pipes around them and the tank hissed with the sudden release of hot steam. In a burst, the thick cloud escaped from the open vent slots casting the two into total darkness.

Bill fell to his side, the pain he was suffering through and blood loss wearing heavily on his body. In the dark it was impossible to tell up from down as his world spun. All he knew for sure was that his shoulder was pressed against something unyielding and hot.

Ford cried out. The hot air brushed across his face like fire, boiling hot and burned his skin. He closed his eyes and staggered backwards. All along his face the skin became immediately swollen and red in patched. Panicked, he withdrew to fall away from the vents. The railing of the catwalk was there to catch him.

Ford's gun fell from his hand, sailing over the edge into the tangled pipes below. The hammer had been set back. A single shot fired as the gun bounce against the metal pipes. The bullet's path struck a tank, punching a hole in its side. Quickly gas started to leak through the slim wall of metal, pooling on the floor and starting to spread. It was lot in the dark, but it collected, a dangerous puddle of highly flammable liquid.

Ford gasped and coughed, able to smell the gas. He pulled himself away from the vents and the railing of the catwalk, almost tripping as he back away.

In a mad hurry, he ran back up the catwalk to get away from the threat of boiling steam and pitch blackness. He couldn't hear Bill following. In fact, Bill hadn't said or done anything. There had been nothing on his part to continue their fight. No body ramming into his own. No one pushed by him to escape. He must still be there, lost in the dark.

Ford made his way back to the ladder to return to the upper level. He felt his chest clench, a feeling of guilt that nagged him deep inside. It squeezed his heart painfully, bringing him back to that night so many years ago. He could almost see the snow in his head, feel the bitter wind on his skin. The complete and utter abandonment of an injured man, leaving them to potentially die alone. Ford hesitated, one foot on the ladder.

For a long moment, as the room filled with the smell of gas, he considered going back for Bill. For one crazy moment, Ford genuinely considered risking his own life to help him. He turned and tried to focus his eyes through the dark. A part of him felt as though he could will Bill's form into existence, to have him appear in the haze, stumbling forward on one broken knee. But there was nothing to see and no one there following him. He could go back. Hell, Ford could do many things.

He could show mercy, find his way back in the dark and save Bill. Or he could make sure Bill died, finding him only to wrap his hands around the man's neck and squeeze until he takes his last breath.

Pipes over head let loose with a bang, built up pressure finally letting go and bursting the screws from their metal facing. The whole ship rocked.

Ford had to get out. It may be his only chance. Any time now, the whole should could drop out of its air space. They would crash into the rock face of the mountain.

No doubt already the whole crew was about, a man to every station to try and stop the drop in pressure. Ford had to get away unseen, now while he still had the option.

Ford coughed, his lungs burning from inhaling gas fumes. What was left of his heart broke for the boy he once knew. He climbed the ladder, each step a struggle as if a heavy weight was tied to each ankle. It was a fight to keep going, to not go back. Ford reminded himself that William was long dead and that Bill did not deserve mercy or forgiveness. He stopped at the top of the ladder, fingers shaking as he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat. He slipped out a small match book, and broke off one wooden switch. Ford struck the match and dropped it into the lower deck.

He watched the little light swell and flicker as the air almost blew out the flame. But it remained burning down in the darkened room, slowly growing in size. Ford apologized quietly to no one in particular. Whatever it took to tell himself he was doing the right thing, that after this, he may find sleep at night.

Once again, he left Bill to die.

Ford didn't stop moving as he pushed through the boiler room. He made the familiar path back, looking desperately for any sign of Stan or of Dipper among the tanks. He didn't see either body, a relief to his soul.

Ahead of him, as he ran closer to the stairs he heard yelling, loud shouting from pirates rushing to the engine and to where he was. He didn't try to fight, he was in no condition to. Ford hid, used the walls to stay out of sight the best he could.

He turned the collar of his coat up around his face. With a breath held in his lungs, Ford pushed into the crowd, praying that he blended in among them enough to find the way out.

He'd been around pirated, knew how to act. He shoved his way by a few smaller men, playing the part of being hurried to join another group. The blisters forming on the skin of his cheek and the crippled curl of his hand let him camouflage into the grotesque nightmare crew with all their scars and artificial parts. Both a blessing and a curse.

The pain was excruciating, in both his hand and face. Ford grunted with each throb that came with movement. He could feel each blood vessel under his skin swell and pump. It moved through his brain like small, pieces of glass shrapnel. He swore and let the adrenaline carry him along, expecting for the world to black out any time now and casting him into the realm of unconscious.

As the ship rocked, Ford's feet tripped over themselves. He suffered from short episodes of vertigo that left him reeling. He moved through the ship, retracing what steps he could recall.

Soon, up ahead, Ford could see the hatch to outside. No one was guarding it or seeing to the anchor. His lip twitched upward with relief. He was almost there.

Somewhere seep inside the ship, there was an explosion. The ship swayed violently toward the mountain side.

Stan held his nephew close. The two crouched behind a large rock for protection. The wind which blew was cold against bare skin. He had take off his coat and held it closed around Dipper's shoulders. The kid kept shaking in his arms. His skin was deathly pale, smattering with blood that he couldn't quite clean. He tried but Dipper flinched away when he tried to wipe blood from his eyes. There was a small cut on the kid's brow which hadn't stopped bleeding.

Stan sighed softly, mentally unprepared for the long trek down the hill side. He looked up at the massive airship over their heads. Its metal structure loomed ominously, dark and thick in the night sky. He felt a wave of a protective nature come over him and Stan pulled Dipper closer under his arm.

They had gotten too lucky back there. So much that Stan didn't want to begin questioning how they made it out alive. Still, they had and he was grateful. He gave his nephew a light tug, silently trying to get him to stand up again. However, Dipper's face was non responsive to the physical touch and when spoke to, he acted unaware of Stan's voice. Shock, trauma, Dipper was closed off to the world beyond his own mind.

Stan shifted on his knees. He didn't know how he was going to do this without Ford. He could only persevere the best he could, despite his doubt and lack of faith.

Ford had arranged them a ride. They would be waiting for them at the bottom of the hill, and they would continue to wait until morning but no later. They couldn't stay sitting among the rocks for much longer, but Dipper refuse to budge and a part of Stan desperately wanted to believe Ford was on his way back to them. He knew it was probably impossible. He was told to leave immediately and they had already wasted too much time. Stan internally fought himself and waited. He watched the airship for any sign of his brother at the closed hatch. But there was nothing still...

Stan spoke to Dipper urgently yet hushed. It was useless. Those eyes were looking back at him but were unseeing.

There was the sound of twisting metal and an explosion over head. Stan jumped at the sound. He quickly pulled Dipper forward, moving him against his will closer to the mountain side. He tucked them both safely under an overhang.

Above them came another explosion and a crash which shook the ground. Parts of metal fell, sparking against the rocks as they tumbled or became lodged in the earth.

They couldn't stay any longer. They couldn't wait for Ford. It would get them crushed. Stan shook Dipper by the shoulders. He yelled his name, desperate to wake him from his daze.

“Dipper! Kid!” Stan gave into his panic and slapped his nephew. His palm cracked across Dipper's cheek, leaving the pale skin red and hot.

Dipper blinked, surprised and confused. Even if only for a moment, he was brought back to the living world. He gave a small noise as he locked eyes with his uncle. “Stan?”

“Not now. I need you to run.”

Dipper was pulled to his feet. He stumbled on the loose stones, his bare feet slipping and rolling as he tried to move any faster than a crawl. Stan helped him stay up, one arm at his back, the other holding his arm. The two made their way down the rock path. Dipper tried his best not to fall but couldn't help how his legs buckled and folded under him. Sharp rocks bit into his heels. He cried out but kept going. He didn't have a choice and wasn't allowed to stop no matter how it hurt.

Dipper looked back over his shoulder. The smoldering clouds of smoke darkened the sky, blocking stars and the moon from sight. The airship burned, sinking lower, threatening to fall. More than once it came close enough to scrape the mountain. Dipper felt numb inside as he watched it rock on its anchor.

Finally, the ship started to crash forward, the long smooth hull colliding with the rock wall. Dipper froze where he stood, shaking off his uncle's hands as they tried to urge him down the path.

He couldn't move from that spot. There was nothing he could do but watch as the ship struck the rocks. The metal caving in on impact. Smoke billowed out from exhaust vents. Fire was breaking free between the seems. Dipper shook, a small disbelieving sob coming up from his chest. He covered his mouth with his hands to silence the hated sound. Everything in him wanted to cry from the loss and heartbreak.

Again Stan grabbed his shoulder and tried to get him to walk away, but Dipper snapped. He pulled himself free of his uncle and screamed at him,

“Let go of me! Fuck! Don't touch me!” Dipper's eye watered. He stood, hands coming to fist in his hair. He watched the airship burn. Again he wanted to scream and cry, but there was nothing left in him to do it. Dipper fell silent and let the tears fall as they may. He didn't fight or hold them back.

“I'm sorry... I'm sorry...” he muttered under his breath.

Stan came to stand close behind his shoulder, careful not to touch him. “You didn't do anything wrong. None of this is your fault. You have to know that...”

Dipper didn't know how to tell his uncle just how wrong that felt to him. So much of this could have been prevented, if he'd been smarter, or stronger, if he'd cared less. He rubbed his nose on the sleeve of Stand's coat, smearing blood over his upper lip.

“He can't be gone...”

“Ford knew what he was getting himself into the second we left home, Dipper... He was prepared for this.”

Dipper shook his head. No amount of physical pain could compare to the crushing guilt he was suffering, because he hadn't been thinking of his uncle. How terrible of a person he thought of himself. To so easily dismiss one's life for another, for thinking of Bill and wishing for his safety at a time like this. With Stan of all people present, Dipper couldn't say anything. There were nothing further to say. He followed his uncle without protest, accepting the help he didn't want with obedience.

After a long while, Stan managed to ease Dipper down from the steepest portion of the hill side. It took some careful steps, watching for loose rocks and minding Dipper's physical limitations. Still, they managed to put a fair distance between them and the crash sight within the hour. Step for step, Stan lead the way to a natural path carved into the hill were softer grass started to grow among the rocks. Finally, Dipper let his tired, bruised and cut up feet relax in their cool shoots. He sat on a rock to catch his breath. Neither of them had spoken in the time that it took to get this far. They bit their tongues and respectfully kept to a mournful silence.

Over head, the clouds of smoke were just as thick and as black as they had been up close. The two of them pretended it was due to bad weather.

Stan sat beside him, impatiently fidgeting. He for one wanted to get as far as they possibly could without stopping. He wanted them out of state by morning. Every time they stopped , even for a moment so Dipper could breath or rest, he allowed it but showed a face of irritation. He sat, hands folded over his lap. One of his knees bounced rapidly as he waited for Dipper to find whatever he needed to keep going.

He wasn't heartless, or at least not trying to seem like it. He knew his nephew had been through more than he ever should. The kid had been through hell. Things like this – people like Bill – made him want to hide Dipper away and never let the cruelties of the world ever hurt him again. They would go back to Gravity Falls together. There the kid would have time to heal, to readjust, to hopefully one day find some semblance of normalcy. He loathed to think how this trauma would permanently effect him and his life. It worried him deeply, and left him with a fear of losing Dipper to his sadness.

He'd always known Dipper to be so happy. The broken young man before him now looked almost unrecognizable in comparison to his memory.

A scattering of rock alerted Stan to unwelcome company. The shuffling of boots were upturning the gravel along the path behind them. He shot to his feet, ready for whom ever was there. He balled his hands into tight fists, knuckles popping under the force of the grip. Dipper turned and fearfully started to stand from the rock, stepping in behind his uncle for protection.

Out of the darkness, trudging down the pathway, looking more dead than alive, crippled and burned, came a familiar figure that had both Pines shocked speechless.

And while Stan was elated, cheering and running to his brother with a supportive arm for him to fall against – Dipper froze, heart in his throat.

Ford saw him then, looking passed Stanley in complete surprise that hit him like a blow to the stomach. It was little looking at a ghost or a vision brought on by a fever dream. He practically tripped over himself as he rushed over, pushing his brother to the side in a hurry. Across the grass Ford managed to run. He threw himself around Dipper, arms pulling him into a hug as tightly as his weak arms would allow. He muttered under his breath, not quite believing what he was seeing or touching with his own hands.

“You're alive. Thank God, Dipper. You're alive. How?” Ford pulled back, moving to closely examine Dipper's neck where he was so sure had been slit. However, there was nothing there that showed real injury. A few spotted bruises and a patch or two of dried, crusting blood, but there was no cut. Ford bulked, confused. He blinked and demanded an explanation that Dipper couldn't give him, _how_. He asked that over and over but didn't understand. “I watched you die. He... I saw him. Dipper, how are you alive?”

Dipper swallowed and lightly shook his head. He didn't know what happened, the rush of adrenaline he had felt blocks so much from his memory. At most, Dipper remember the knife, Bill pressed to his back. But after that, there was nothing.

Dipper whispered out Bill's name. His voice cracked but he started to repeat it, stammering over the single word like it was the only one he knew.

Ford misunderstood why it came out so shake, softly hushing him with a reassurance he didn't want.

“He's gone. I promise, he's gone.”

Dipper's eyes grew wide, lips parting slightly. He took a step back. “What did you do?” he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this one's long. I was having trouble breaking up this chapter into smaller sections and having it feel complete... So, sorry it's so long.
> 
> You guys are so smart! I love how so many people were like "Dipper's not dead, you didn't add a 'character death' tag". I love it. <3 There's a death tag now though...


	15. Chapter 15

Once upon a time Dipper had been quite fond of long train rides. He enjoyed the quiet social aspect of watching people move about from their parties to their respective seats. He had been able to watch picturesque views of the scenery racing by his window at inhumanly high speeds. The marvels of technology and the rushing sound of the engine had been fascinating and delightful. Now, he stared at the velvet upholstery of the bench across from where he sat with a dull look in his eye. He didn't find any joy in the bounce of the train car or the sight out the window. In fact, he hadn't looked up since they left Bakersfield a few hours back. There was no interest in wide open fields or farm lands. It was just him and the burgundy tone of the velvet.

The journey home had been almost immediate. Little to no time had been spend resting. Once those injured were deemed capable of walking, the three were seated on the train within the hour. They passed small towns and countryside, heading back North, back to Oregon as quickly as possible. Still, this wasn't good enough for Ford. Nothing moved fast enough or seemed capable of being on time.

On top of it all, the man had barely left Dipper's side since the three of them climbed down the mountain side. Each step of the way, he'd been there, a shadow lurking over Dipper's shoulder for protection. The intent of reunion and care had warn off, becoming a fervent paranoia that dangerously mixed with intense anger towards everyone. It took Stan by surprise. Ford's passing comments had been taken with a grain of salt, brushed off as stress and worry. However, when turned towards their nephew, and by extension the doctor treating him, Ford needed to be shown from he room.

It had been an incident that created a fracture between the two brothers, slowly at first in the early hours of the morning but had grown deeper as that afternoon wore on. Which brought them to the present, arguing back and forth in hushed tones so not to be heard outside their train car.

Dipper hadn't said much since the hill side, offering only acknowledged mumbled and short, clipped phrases. Something in him had broken, deeply, emotionally. He chose to remain this way, no matter the question or comment directed towards him. The doctor's prying, Ford's yelling, even Stan's sympathy was met with an emotionless expression and a 'yes' or 'no'.

His cuts and bruises had been dressed. Bandages he now irritably picked at with restless finger nails. He kept unconsciously touching the thick bandage wrapped about his head. The longer he sat awake, the more blurred his memory became, choosing to forgo pieces of the night before as if they never happened. Ford was there to remind him, against Dipper's wishes. He would prefer to forget.

Something else Dipper's fingers found grabbing for, something he hadn't lost or had taken from him, was the bracelet on his arm. Ford had asked about it, or rather demanded to be told. The question was returned with silence on Dipper's end. To him, it was simply his and no one was allowed to take it away from him.

They tried. Under the watchful eye of his uncle the doctor had suggested cutting the bracelet in order to get it off. Due to its small size the only other way to remove it would be to break the thumb. Dipper protested, begging to be allowed to keep it on. He held his arm with a hand around his wrist. Ford's anger had started up then, ordering the doctor to cut it off.

Panicked, Dipper had rolled from the examination table, prepared to run from the room entirely. Ford had grabbed him by the arm tightly. He shook him like a rag doll trying to knock some sense into him. He yelled in his face and told him the _thing_ needed to go.

In tears, Dipper had screamed. He almost was able to run from the room but collided with Stan who was coming to see what the commotion was. Stan held Dipper close like one would comfort a scared child. He stared at his brother, unbelieving at first of what he was witnessing. The two argued and swore. Ford grabbed a medical saw himself with every intent of seeing the simply bracelet removed.

Orderlies came to assist Stan with removing his brother. He thrashed in protest and threatened many of them. Ford had to be sedated and moved to his own bed for the time being. He had his own injuries that also needed attention to, and it seemed that this was the only way anyone would be able to carry out that care. Ford was scheduled for surgery, which had been previously ignored. One of his fingers was broken beyond repair and needed to be removed. Other doctors saw to this while Stan stayed with Dipper.

From then on, Stan imposed himself between the two, acting as a barricade in case Ford lost his mind once more.

They had been advised to take up bed rest, for a few days at least. The doctor saw travel problematic given the mental instability of his patients. Stan agreed, but he also knew they couldn't risk staying too long. So, against his better judgment, once Ford was able to sit up on his own a few hours after surgery. They had left without any further discussion on the matter. It would have to be enough. They could rest on the train.

They must have made quite the sight waiting amongst the crowd at the train station. By now, no double the leading topic of gossip among the travellers. The three look no better than penniless labourers, under dressed for social decency and no where acceptable for the private train car they paid for. Bandaged and dirty, Dipper had been given shoes that fit but still wore Stan's coat around himself, too large for his slight frame. It probably looked stolen or second hand. People moved away from them as they boarded.

Their car wasn't first class, yet it was still nicely decorated and private. Dipper sat by the window, leaning against the hard wall. Beside him was Stan, chest puffed up and arms crossed. Opposite them was Ford, seated by the door, suspiciously peering out the small viewing window whenever someone strolled by. He kept grumbling, arguing with Stan in a hushed voice.

The conversation fell on deaf ears as Dipper stared blankly ahead. Every so often his name would become recognizable though the fog of thoughts and engine humming. His brain supplied that they were speaking of him, not to him. Ford long ago stopped talking to him, tired of not getting the reply he sought. Dipper accepted this and became comfortable in his oblivious existence. A coldness was freezing over his chest numbing the pain he felt. He wished it would last forever, because Dipper knew facing his guilt on his own would assuredly eat him alive.

Every time he closed his eyes Dipper saw the gun in his hands. He could feel the imaginary weight of it as he pulled the trigger. He saw Tad's body, soaked with blood. He tried to chase the thoughts away but no matter how he worked to distract himself, the sight always seeped back in. It sent a shiver up Dipper's spine, ghostly little touches that upset the bruises left behind by a dead man.

He couldn't sleep. He hadn't eaten. Dipper wished he had died on that airship with the lot of them.

He rung his hands together, putting all his tension and pain into the press of his fingers. A sob was stuck in his throat, heavy and choking. He couldn't even cry properly. There would be an intense swell in his chest, as though any second he'd bust into a hysterical bout of emotion. The feeling stopped before it could come out, always brought to a boiling point but not allowed to overflow.

Passed the vacant space in his head, Dipper hears his uncle speaking. He let his attention wander toward them because of the frequency he heard his own name. They were making plans for when they returned to Gravity Falls. Ford seemed desperate to get out of his townhouse, finding it too central and exposed. He wished to sell the space and move somewhere more isolated and safe. He planned to keep Dipper with him. For protection, was his argument.

Stan called him ridiculous and paranoid, a damning trait for the older man. There was no need to hide in fear of a ghost now that Cipher was long gone. People were going to call him crazy, but Ford didn't care. His mind was made up. Once they returned, they would find a small place on the outskirts of town, somewhere quiet and safe. Dipper would come to stay with them, presumably for the time being but there was a hint of finality in the decision.

They did not ask his opinion or what he wanted, the choice made for him on his behalf.

For the first time during the train ride, Dipper turned his gaze to look out the window. The sun was high, brightly shining over the fields they passed. Tall grass and late blooming wild foliage swayed in a breeze that was lost through the thick glass. He watched as the world passed by without him. Dipper supposed that the world wouldn't miss him. It didn't need him for any great purpose.

The train carried them North, back to home, their his family and friends.

At every stop Dipper wished it'd be his last. He wanted to get off the train at the next station, to stand on the crowded platform and breathe in the world around him. To have his shoulder bumped and be pushed along with the flow of travellers. Dipper wanted to pick a direction and walk. He wanted to travel as far as he could. No matter the weather or how his feet hurt, he'd cross the ocean by rowboat if he had to. Whatever took him far away from who he was.

However, at every scheduled station, each town they passed through, Dipper remained in his seat. He stared out the window as visions of a life he could never have played out in his mind.

In the following weeks, Dipper adjusted to his new life with outwardly indifference. Inside, his heart sunk low in his chest, constricting at each limitation presented to him.

The unfortunate changed started immediately. He'd been long since evicted from his apartment. The only thing in his past life that had been his was gone. What few possessions he still kept had been packed up and moved for him. Now, his whole world was kept in a few small rooms which belonged to his uncles.

As Ford decided, the townhouse was sold. He and Stan moved to the outside of town, into a small shack set back in the woods. Made of a sturdy wood, the place was more than the two men could ever need. It was isolated there, a fair hike into town if one chose to walk. Perhaps an hour or so on a dry day. Still, it was not a walk Dipper was allowed to make on his own. Ford or Stan saw it fit to accompany him whenever the desire arose. This was accepted with a wordless acceptance to stay indoors.

The space inside was laid out between the three. Ford and Stan resided on the main floor, coexisting easily enough in the common room and kitchen. Dipper was given the top floor to call his own. It wasn't much, only made up of a simple bedroom and a washroom down the hall.

The room was cozy and warmly lit. The floor shared space above the main floor's fireplace. It heated the wood slats of his bedroom well into the cold night. His familiar furniture was place inside with the intention of offering comfort in the few belongings he owned. Instead, Dipper found them dull in colour and horribly stiff.

From his armchair, wedged under the windowsill, he could look out over the yard. In the fading light of December, there wasn't much to see. The unkempt, overgrown lawn was buried deep in freshly packed snow and wouldn't been seen for months still. The delicate white flakes which feel from the clouds helped distract that the banks were knee high and practically ice. Thick, tall trees lined the property. As the cold wind blew, it shook the branches and made the trees bow and rustle.

Dipper hated the emptiness of his room, the bland wood tones and the frustrating company that awaited him every time he left his room. Neither man could speak or do anything untoward, but Dipper would spend the rest of the day in an unjustly anger all because he met their eye.

He blamed them for making him feel this way. They nagged him, bombarded him with sugarcoated concern and constant supervision. No matter what he could possibly be doing, Dipper found one of them peering over his shoulder. Though he minded it less when Stan was there. At least then he was given a sympathetic smile and casual conversation.

Still, he was not infirm or infantile. He did not require a nanny or chaperone to stand in the yard alone for a minute.

In the end, it didn't matter. Dipper looked out the window of his bedroom. He had turned his armchair to make it easier to watch from there. Chin resting across his knuckles, his breath clouded the cold glass as he breathed against it. Sitting there, he could see the stars in the sky, little dots of light that twinkled among the dark clouds blowing by. The snow had started falling early in the evening and continued to this late hour. Some time ago, he heard the grandfather clock downstairs chime eleven.

He sat quietly in the dark, blankly watching the sky. For a while Dipper had been trying to read by lamp light but it had started to strain his eyes and lead to a rather bad headache. He turned the lamp off and let the darkness fill the small room. He assumed his uncles thought him asleep, having not made a peep in so long. This probably meant Ford would be up to check on him eventually. It had become a regular occurrence because of Ford's on going paranoia.

Though some nights, ones that made Dipper feel particularly vulnerable and empty, he needed the comfort of his uncle. Too often, he would awake in the night screaming, plagued by reoccurring nightmares. The whole house would fill with the sounds of his screaming, full of fear and panic, as his dreams replayed all the blood and death which stained his hands.

Within seconds, there would be his uncle. Hands gripping him and pinning him to the bed to still his fighting. Dipper would stay that way until the dreams faded from his mind. Some nights were better than others. A simple cup of tea and Dipper would be able to return to a his bed without any further problems. Others left him awake until sunrise, crying uncontrollably into his uncle's shoulder.

He didn't always have nightmares. Those nights, Dipper dreamt of Bill. They came in vivid detail, colourful and felt all too real. There, in those dreams, Dipper could feel the perfect texture of Bill's hair as he ran his fingers through the tangled blonde strands. He could touch Bill's face and convince himself he was alive. The pirate felt warm and solid in his hands. There was a chest that rose and fell under Dipper's cheek when they lay down together. In his dreams, there was a heartbeat beneath his ear that helped him sleep soundly. A familiar scent of leather tickled his nose when he left kissed along Bill's collarbone. There, Dipper could smile.

These dreams left him feeling nothing but regret in the morning.

Dipper closed his eyes and sighed slowly. His head hurt but it was tolerable enough now that it was dark. Maybe a little sleep would take it away, he thought as he let his head rest again the armchair. The sturdy fabric held his body in a way that could be called comfortable. A soft blanket was stretched over his lap, keeping him warm in the cooler room. It was made of a nice wool, thick and heavier than Dipper's simple nightshirt and long johns. He didn't remember falling asleep like that, sitting upright with an open book still in his lap.

Dropping his book to the floor, the soft knock of the binding against wood startled him forward in his chair. The room was dark to his sleep filled eyes. Dipper rubbed at them tiredly. Everything was still. Snow still collected along the windowsill.

A surreal feeling ran up his spine then. Even though the room was quiet, Dipper could feel a presence somewhere in the darkness. He didn't feel alone, telling him that this was a dream. He tried not to move or breathe, the beginnings of fear starting to bleed from his subconscious. His heartbeat started to climb, sounding forcefully loud in his ears. Something was waiting for him, lurking in the corners of his room. There was a soft creak of wood flooring and Dipper jumped in his chair. Perched on the edge, ready to run, he turned toward the sound with a sharp gasp.

In the corner, standing very still, stood the ghost which haunted him. Tall and broad, a shadow that was just as imposing as the real thing. So many familiar details were lost on the stony face. Dipper felt his body tremble. Nails dug into the armrests to try and still his hands.

The ghost was watching him back from the corner of the room. Dipper was afraid to turn his eyes away or even blink. Not because of what may happen, but because the shadow might disappear as quickly as it came.

The figure moved closer, each step was slow but purposeful. Boots made soft clicking sounds over the wooden slats. Dipper held his breath. As the distance between them grew smaller, the air felt alive with sparking electricity. It tingled on the skin, fine hairs rising on Dipper's neck. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest right there.

Dipper felt hypnotized, rising from his chair in a single fluid motion. He let out the shaken breath he'd been holding in. It wobbled in his throat like a sob. One small movement in the dark, a hand came up to meet him. Fingers, encased in fine leather gloves curled under his chin. Dipper didn't move, too scared to to anything other than let the hand cradle his jaw. It felt solid and whole, strong enough to hold him. The gloves was cold to the touch, but Dipper ignored it. He pretended it was from the snow outside. Whatever lie made this dream feel real.

Dipper felt faint, oddly light headed from the single touch. In an airy voice he whispered out into the silence, “Bill...” It was pleading and weak, in desperate need of reassurance that he wasn't crazy for seeing the dead.

He brought his hands up to touch Bill's coat. The thick fabric was like ice, dark and heavy. The row of buttons delicately caught what little light shone in the window. Dipper's fingers skimmed over each silvery button, numbly undoing each one at a painfully slow pace. One by one the buttons slipped from their holes until the coat hung open. Dipper pushed the fabric aside to explore the wool lining. Shaking, he touched Bill's waist and was happy to discover that there was a warmth there. A warm body was somewhere underneath layers of shirts and his firm boned vest. Dipper stepped closer and let himself be enveloped by the feeling of Bill's body. The hug was gentle but no less urgent.

The hand on his chin slide slower, lightly brushing over his neck to touch the roughly cut hair below Dipper's ear. They became tangled and gripped hard. The prickle of pain made Dipper sigh, lips parting with a content noise. His head fell back into the hand which held him. Even so close, the dark distorted Bill's expression and left the small details shielded in shadow. Dipper wished to see the expanse of tanned skin bathed in full light. He missed the wide proud smile that showed off his sharp teeth.

Dipper leaned forward, eyes half lidded and wanting. His lips were met half way, a soft brush at first where their mixed breath tickled the delicate skin. Each pass of lips dragged out into longer shared kisses, becoming harder, pressing. Bill held him within the folds of his coat and Dipper clung, tightly as though he would fall without something to catch him.

Little sounds of pleasure were muffled by the passionate exchange of kisses. Teeth nipped at over eager tongues.

Dipper ran his hands along the hard lines of Bill's vest, each ribbed bone, the smooth intricate design of unseen embroidery. He wanted to dig his fingers in deeper, to feel real skin but the stiff material kept him out. Unfortunate, but Dipper relented and kept running his hands over Bill's back.

An eternity seemed to pass before they allowed the kiss end. Their noses bumped as Bill let his forehead rest against Dipper's. They stood close, content to simply holding each other in the dark. There was a soothing reassurance in the embrace that Dipper wanted to keep with him always. He licked his lips and opened his eyes, risking to find something other than Bill's face. However, there it was. In the low light Dipper could make out the ever present eye-patch and tall nose. The one eye looking back at him looked almost black in the shadows, drowning out their usual molten gold.

Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but there were little scar marks on Bill's cheekbone that Dipper didn't remember being there before. Perhaps they were something his fantasy wished to substitute in place of a missing memory. Whatever it was, Dipper wanted to trace each one and tenderly shower each small imperfection with a kiss.

Dipper blinked a few times, pulling away only by an inch. He looked into Bill's shadowed face and wanted to cry. He was overcome with the urge. His eyes started to water. He opened his mouth to speak but whatever he could possibly say died on his lips. Bill hushed him, gently placing kisses along his forehead and down to the tip of his nose.

“There's no where I can't find you, Pine Tree” Bill whispered to him. The possessive statement held a promise that boarder on threatening, but Dipper could only find it to be the sweetest of things to hear. “He can try to hide you away, but I'll always come for you.”

Dipper closed his eyes tightly and gave a short nod. He believed that Bill would do such a thing, if he were alive. At least, he wished for it. He had dreamed that Bill would come find him like this, to whisk him away into the night. He didn't care where bill took him as long as it was far away. They could become lost in the rain forest or a desert. They could run to the opposite side of the globe for all he cared.

But Dipper knew they couldn't go anywhere together, because it was all a dream. The beautiful, perfect promises of being stolen away were all too perfect to be real, too much like a fantasy. Dipper buried his face into Bill's neck and held him that way until he felt uncomfortably tired and woozy. The last thing he remembered before the dream drifted away was Bill's whispering in his ear, telling him that he'd come back for him.

Downstairs the grandfather clock struck quarter passed one, an unreasonable hour for a man to be up. Unfortunately, most nights were passed this way and Ford stayed up practically to sunrise, unable to sleep or rest. The hours of night passed slow but productive for him. Writing, reading, working away on anything to keep his mind sharp and busy.

Tonight he had been reading. He set the book down on the end table next to his chair. The tea he prepared for himself had long been forgotten. The small pot now cold, the teacup still filled and untouched. A small wave of exhaustion tugged on his mind, one that suggested he go to bed. Reasonably, it was a smart idea. Ford took up his teacup and drank the contents despite their bitter and over steeped flavour.

He was about to pull the string cord of the nearby lamp when there was a soft thump from upstairs. The hairs on his neck stood on end at the sudden, singular sound. He paused briefly listening for any further movement. For a moment, nothing, but then came a groaning creek of wood something that didn't sound like his nephew's gentle footsteps. Ford threw himself from his seat.

In a hurry he tore through the house, taking the staircase every second step at a time. He ran to Dipper's room, grabbed the door handle and pushed it open with one aggressive swing. The room was dark, still and peaceful. There were no pirates or crazed murderers waiting to attack him. Instead, all he found was the comfortably form of his nephew asleep in his armchair. His head was turned off to one side, mouth open as he breathed softly in his sleep. There was a blanket tucked around his lap and a book at his feet. The pounding in Ford's chest eased as the initial panic subsided.

He stood silently in the doorway for a long moment, watching as Dipper slept. Ford sighed, calming and slow. He blamed himself for being overly tired, that's what made him hear the noise. No one breaking in, only Dipper dropping his book.

He was being irrational, but a small voice in the back of his mind nagged him with worry and suspicion. It tempted him to do the most eccentric things. For now, he let himself believe they were safe, because there was a look on Dipper's face that touched his heart. Instead of the fitful thrashing and screams which had been constant since his rescue, there was a pleasantly content expression tonight. Ford withdrew himself from the room, not wanting to disturb Dipper's good dreams. He closed the door softly as he left as to not wake him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited!!! We're almost to the end that I couldn't help but write more. This chapter was meant to be the last one but it quickly became unnecessarily long. Bringing closure to some things, others are purposefully left ambiguous. It's a word heavy chapter. The last chapter, I'll try to hold off at least a week before posting it, but it'll be up soon. I promise. 
> 
> I really gave Ford the short end of the stick here. Didn't mean to accidentally make him the unintentional villain... Sorry, Ford.


	16. Chapter 16

What started as a miracle soon became looked on as a bad omen. Nights passed without so much as a rustling from upstairs. There was only peaceful silence as Dipper slept, finding comfort in a little dream world he made for himself. At first, both Stan and Ford were hopeful and relieved their nephew was no longer suffering. They were glad he wasn't screaming himself awake each night to a dark room. It had been heartbreaking to watch for the pair, unable to help as Dipper cried and unsure if they were even providing him with what support he needed.

Now, this silence felt more unsettling than the nightmares. What was a welcomed change was now even more worrying.

It was made apparent that Dipper preferred his bubble of ignorance and took to sleep like an addict. He barely strayed from his room, venturing down to the main floor's living space for brief moments before disappearing up the stairs again. He excused himself for long afternoon naps, claiming to feel unwell.

And perhaps he was, stress wearing on him enough to cause such exhaustion. And his uncles knew he had always been prone to headaches.

However, Dipper turned down most of his meals, finding little appeal in food and lacking any form of appetite. Eating was no more than a mundane necessity which he cared little for, no matter what was on his plate. A few bites of food and some weak tea was all it took to leave him full. It didn't take long for his already skinny frame to look smaller and fragile. His skin seemed paler, even for the season. And while he took every chance to lay down, it never seemed to do him much good. Dark, heavy circles rimmed his eyes, betraying his exhausted state like he hadn't slept in days. It worried his uncles terribly.

Dipper argued that he felt perfectly fine, just tired due to the grey winter weather. It wasn't convincing and it had Stan at the end of his rope. He wasn't going to sit back and allow his nephew to wither away inside. So, one afternoon when the sun finally decided to show itself from behind thick clouds, he bundled Dipper up in a great number of layers and took him into town for afternoon tea with Mabel. There he would have some pleasant, familiar company. If anything else, Mabel would force feed her brother more pastries than he could handle.

The snow was thick on the ground, reflecting the sunshine back into their eyes. The world sparkled white and crisp against the clear blue sky. The wind was light, kicking up a dusting of fresh snow around them. It took a little force and so shortage of yelling, but after an hour of walking, Dipper was pushed through the door of his family home where his sister stood to greet him.

Stan never planned to stay, wanting the two to have some privacy together, free from the watchful eye of himself or their parents. He did agree to come back later on in the evening to collect Dipper though, to which his nephew begrudgingly nodded in acceptance. He trusted Mabel to take care of Dipper until then. For himself, Stan headed off towards the town bar for his own choice in drink.

Dipper mood was far from sociable. It wasn't that he disliked visiting his sister. On the contrary, he loved her dearly. She had been the only person he chose to opened up to and spoke with since being home. However, he found himself with no desire for company today. There was no enjoyment in being forced to sit around and chat aimlessly. No one shared his feelings though and he'd been stripped of his coat before being moved to the backroom to sit.

Their low table was pushed against the wall below a window which looked out over the garden. The view was cold and vacant, snow covering what would have been a lively flower bed.

Dipper stared out into the yard with an uninterested expression. His chair had a looping metal backrest and was uncomfortable to slouch against but he did so anyway. As Mabel talked as he only listened.

After a while he pulled his eyes from the window to stare down into his teacup. He had sipped at it but found it too hot and burned his lip. Still, the steamed tea was creamy with milk and was sweet on his tongue, flavoured with brown sugar and cinnamon. Painfully bored Dipper traced the painted pattern of his teacup, skimming across thorn covered branches and delicate pink roses. The porcelain china was hot under his fingertips but he didn't mind the slight burn after spending so long outside in the cold.

“Wendy's been asking to see you...” Mabel said, trying to break Dipper into conversation. Perhaps a thankless tasks, but she still did her best. Dipper could appreciate the unrelated topic, though he knew there were more things she wished to discuss on the forefront of her mind.

When the statement received no answer she chose to fill in the silence with her own voice. She didn't talk about anything significant or important, just casual small talk like gossip and the bad weather they've been having. Awkwardly she began to hover, ready to refill Dipper's teacup at any time and made sure his small saucer was never empty of crackers and chocolate.

The sweets were a bit overwhelming on Dipper's tongue. He ate slow and in small bites, enough that kept his sister satisfied and save himself a scolding. It still was not what he wanted. An odd craving was nagging at his stomach, persistent and annoying. What he wanted, as much as he still hated the taste, was the familiar bite of spiced rum. He missed the way it burned everything from his nose to his stomach, heating his insides and smelling far too similar to wood varnish. Still, he'd grown to tolerate the strong flavour, especially since he'd developed a particularly bad habit of stealing mouth fulls from the bottle in Stan's liquor cabinet when no one was around.

Mabel said something to catch his attention. Dipper easily reentered the conversation when prompted to, able to province short answers of 'yes' and 'alright', when needed. They were all simple things to say, nothing that could merit embellishment. However, he could tell it was wearing on her short temper. Mabel looked at him with a frustrated, impatient look in her eye. The concern behind it was well intended but Dipper had grown so tired of being treated like he needed such attention.

“Dip-”

“Mabel...” he cut her off with a snipped tone. She huffed a sigh and spoke again anyway, asking what was really on her mind.

“Do you still think about him?”

Dipper paused for a moment, finding the answer so ridiculous obvious that he almost didn't reply. He forced a little laugh, and bit his lip when it sounded more like a pained whine. Of course she would bring up such a topic, she always did.

It wasn't as if anyone was around to overhear their conversation. Dipper set his cup down and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Of course,” he eventually said. It was honest, words spilling from his mouth on their own accord. It frustrated Dipper that he had such a hard time lying to his sister. He told her _almost_ everything. What he left out were for him alone to know. “Obviously... Yes. I spend most nights dreaming about him. I can't stop thinking about... everything. I think about it so much it makes me sick.”

“Don't get mad...” she said softly, not wanting to upset him. “I just want you to talk to me. I won't tell. Not Ford or Stan. I promise.”

Dipper let out a strained breath through his nose. He was annoyed, frustrated, and wasn't sure how else to act. He was overcome with the urge to swipe at the table and upturn its contents. Instead, he aggressively went for the closed button on his cuff. Thankfully he had remained under dressed for his visit with his sister, lacking of any restrictive waistcoat or vest. His white button down was wrinkled and haphazardly tucked into his trousers. His suspenders were loose fitting. All this did make it exceptionally easy for him to undo his cuff and shove up the sleeve.

He leaned forward propping his elbow on the table, hand raised for inspection. The gold bangle still proudly encasing his slim wrist, unable to come off or do anything other than look expensive and out of place. Mabel had seen it before, but he just wanted her to understand.

“I honestly...” Dipper started, unsure how to phrase it all. He was afraid, in a way, to speak. “It's crazy, but I wanted to stay...”

There it was. It was the first time Dipper had said such a thing out loud, and it hurt him how painfully truthful the statement was. He cared about Bill and would have followed him to the ends of the Earth, all because of some misguided and ridiculous feeling. _Love_, that foolish, irrational, uncontrollable feeling. Dipper looked at his arm. He easily ignored the scars that stood as evidence to his kidnapping and torture. Instead, all he saw was the fine gold work of his jewellery.

“He was... He wasn't a good person. I know that. He hurt me. He hurt Ford, and others. But there was _something_ between us... Bill felt it too. I just...” Dipper laughed at himself pitying his own heart. “I don't know what he felt, but I'm sure there was something there.”

Mabel was uncharacteristically silent. She met his eye with a look of sympathy. It wasn't judgmental or accusing, but open and soft. It was suppose to be comforting and should have been, but it irritated Dipper to no end. That look, made him feel like a pathetic child. He shook his head, saying that none of it mattered any more because Bill was gone. Whatever he felt, love or fleeting lust, nothing could change the past.

“He's gone. He's dead and gone but still won't leave me the fuck alone.” He licked his lips before sinking his teeth into the moist skin, causing himself a little sting of pain as he bit into the tender burn mark. “I dream about him all the time... Some nights feel so real that I'm convinced he's there. I can touch him and feel him, hear his voice in my head.... But he's not! ...He won't just go away.”

“How inconsiderate...” Mabel tried to joke and make light of the confession.

Dipper laughed sadly and ran a hand through his messy hair. Frustrated, temper building in his chest and in need of air, he went to push himself back from the table. His palm missed the edge, shooting out with force and knocking his teacup onto the floor. The thin china broke instantly, tea spilling out over the rug in a dark stain. Dipper cursed under his breath and moved quickly, stooping down to the floor. As Mabel got a napkin, Dipper collected the small, broken pieced of porcelain into his hand.

Mabel was teasing him for being clumsy again. It was distracting and he looked up at her to argue that it wasn't his fault, not really. Then one sharp chip slipped between his fingers. Dipper hissed in surprise, feeling the edge cut into his skin.

He stood quickly, dropping everything he's already gathered. Along his fingertip was a smooth cut, the pale skin turning pink with irritation. He touched the tender skin. Quickly blood was starting to rise and form little pearls of red. Dipper looked at the blood with a focused stare.

Mabel said something he didn't quite hear. She made a grab for his hand, trying to wrap the napkin around his cut. She was well aware of his fear of blood, how it made him pale at the sight. More than once she witnessed Dipper faint from touching it. Worried, she tried to help hide the blood and clean it up for him. However, Dipper waved her away. He dropped the napkin and simply stuck the bleeding fingertip into his mouth. The cut stung under the pressure of his tongue. The familiar taste of copper filled his mouth, mixing with the lingering chocolate he'd been eating. He didn't feel the dizzying spin of the room, no weakening of the knees.

“I'm fine,” Dipper said reassuringly as he took a seat again, surprisingly calm. Mabel stared at him in shock. It was almost funny, the way her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened.

“It's just a cut. I'm fine,” he said again.

She was hesitant to take a seat herself, in case Dipper's fainting spell was delayed and she needed to call for help. “I've seen you throw up before because of 'just a cut'. Are you sure you're feeling alright, Dipper?”

“Yes,” he told her. “Just... I guess, I'm over it.”

Mabel barked out a disbelieving laugh. She stood watching him for a moment, hands on her hips and skeptical. However, there was nothing to worry about. Dipper didn't fall out of his chair unconscious, nor did he start to shake. She sat down, restless and flustered. Her brow knit together as she gave a silly pout.

“I suppose you are...”

Some how she retrained herself from teasing him any further. It was very much appreciated. Dipper stared at the cut for a long while. The blood came slower, until it was easily wiped away on his pant leg. He wished he had been so levelheaded about blood before. Perhaps he could have been more useful as a medical student, or to Bill...

Memories of sitting beside the pirate as he bled from a bullet wound came back to him. Dipper had seen the mess of blood, held a sharp needle between his fingers and had almost thrown up. Now, he only hummed in thought. His held tilted to one side as he stared off into space, thinking.

Dipped smirked to himself, a light chuckle bubbling up from his chest. It lit up his face in a way that seemed so foreign.

“What is it?” Mabel asked, watching the glazed expression pass over her brother's face. He seemed lost on a thought and it peeked her curiosity.

“Bill knew,” was what he said first. He covered his face in his hands and couldn't stop the laugh that came over him. It shook his shoulders with force, loudly coming out passed his hands which tried to muffle the noise. Again Mabel said something that went unheard over the sound of his own thoughts. “Bill knew I was scared of blood.”

“So? It's common...”

“No, you don't get it.” Dipper felt his lip twitch, a grin pulled on his mouth to the point where it almost hurt. He couldn't even begin to explain what he meant. Too many thoughts were filling his head, jumbling together into an incoherent mess that only he could piece together.

Still fresh and agonizing memories, frantic and messy filled his head. Bill's violent behaviour turned toward him. The way it made Dipper feel small and terrified. If he closed his eyes he could remember how Bill forced him across the desk of his cabin, arms held down against the hard wood top. Dipper remembered the glint of the knife poised over his arm, the promise to dismember the limb swirling around the air. He had screamed and cried.

The majority of what happened after was wiped clean from existence, lost to him when Dipper blacked out. But Bill had seen it all, had watched with a knowing eye as Dipper was left paralyzed with shock, sprawled like a corpse on the floor.

Bill knew Dipper feared blood, knew how weak he was. It wasn't hard to press on those fears or to intimidate him. Dipper lightly touched his neck. It was manipulative and evil. However the thought couldn't chase away the warmth that overtook his chest. It reminded him that he was alive, all because of Bill and his horrible tricks.

Dipper's lashes fluttered as he blinked. He looked away from his sister, a rosy glow tinting his face. When he opened his mouth to speak nothing come out. Stray fingertips ran along the skin of his neck above the high collar he wore. He chuckled again, lighter and more breathless.

“Bill knew I'd faint,” he said more to himself than his sister.

Mabel still wasn't able to follow his inner thoughts. She watched him, confused and quiet from across the table. For a moment she considered asking him to explain but a genuinely contented expression set over Dipper face and she hated to take that away from him. She stood slowly.

“Well, I don't know what that means, Dipper... But you need a new teacup.”

As evening approached Dipper didn't wait for Stan to come back. It was firmly believed in his mind that he was not a child and did not need a chaperone. He was an adult and perfectly capable of walking home on his own. It wasn't even a hard walk, only made long by the cold wind and the snow underfoot. Each step he took was purposefully lazy because Dipper was in no rush to return whatsoever. He tried to enjoy the fresh air and the freedom of being alone. Along the way, he thought about sticking to the dirt road. Eventually it would lead him out of town. From there he could keep going onward until he was lost on the stretch of horizon.

Dipper entertained that thought. He wondered if someone would take pity on him, offer him a lift to the next town. Unfortunately, the private drive leading into the wood came up on his path and Dipper turned in for home. At least, what was now his home.

He hadn't even made it across the lawn before Ford was bursting from the front door, marching out onto the porch. The old man was red in the face, brow drawn tightly down over his eyes. He looked enraged that Dipper was alone, that he dared to come back without Stan at his side. Ford's heavy steps came to a stop and he shouted across the yard. His voice echoed off the trees.

“Mason, get inside! Right now!” Ford thrust his hand in the direction of the open door and waited for him to listen like a well trained dog.

It was only a walk, Dipper thought bitterly. He hung his head and pulled himself through the snow and up to the shack. Ford moved to one side as Dipper climbed the porch steps in silence. He flinched as his uncle's raised voice but tried not to react as he was all but pushed inside once more.

“Stan telephoned from your parent's and said you had left. He was on his way to get you. Why didn't you wait for him? You don't do that, Dipper! You don't wander off like that! You had us worry about you! If something were to happen, how would we even know?”

Dipper audibly sighed, exasperated. He rolled his eyes.

“No! Don't give me that attitude. This is serious,” Ford continued on, nagging him about his delicate condition and other unforeseen dangers which sounded ludicrous, as if monsters lives in the woods. He sounded like a rambling, crazed old man.

Dipper didn't want to live like that any more, to be treated like a breakable novelty. He felt a surge of anger rise inside himself. It elevated his heart and made him want to say or do something, anything to let it all out.

Abruptly Dipper shucked off his coat and rudely dumped it in a cold, damp pile on the floor. His hands shook with tension, twitching. Grabbing the first thing he could, Dipper threw an empty candle holder down the narrow hallway as hard as he could. All his pent up frustration and temper was put behind that throw. The metal holder went sailing, stopping only when a wall got in its way. It hit hard, denting the plaster and ripping a small hole in the wallpaper. The candle holder fell to the floor with a heavy thunk at the end of the hallway.

Ford paused in his yelling, surprised by the sudden outburst. He watched the holder fall to the floor. The brief moment of stunned silence was quickly overcome but by the time Ford looked up Dipper had already started running for the stairs. Ford sputtered and followed after. He yelled, angrier and louder as Dipper refuse to stop.

Dipper ran for his room on the top floor, making it there long before his uncle. The door was slammed shut. As Ford called to him, voice growing closer, Dipper locked the door in order to keep anyone from coming in. He wanted Ford to leave him alone, for everyone to go away. Dipper sunk to the floor, hands firmly latched to the doorknob hold it still. He pressed his body into the wood. The knob rattled in his hands as Ford tried to force his way in. It shook the door and Dipper along with it. Ford pounded a fist against the other side, demanding he unlock the door.

“Mason, open this door!” Ford yelled, slamming the hand against the door again and again.

Dipper closed his eyes and wished he'd go away. He didn't move, didn't budge as his uncle continued to yell at him. He sucked in a sharp breath, hating how spineless and pathetic he truly felt. His whole life, he'd been so complacent and accepting over what everyone had told him to do and how to feel. But he'd never felt so low and pathetic as he did then, snivelling on the floor. Dipper threw his body against the door, satisfied as it bounced in its frame. His voice shook and broke, but that didn't stop him from yelling back at his uncle. It was loud and full of hate.

“No! Leave me alone!”

He didn't care that his eyes prickled with tears, or how his throat tightened around his voice making it crack. Dipper yelled, unapologetic and angry. He didn't want Ford or Stan. He didn't want his parents anywhere near him. And as grateful as he had been for Mabel, Dipper didn't want her either. More than anything, he wanted everyone to go away and leave him in peace. Everyone was so suffocating and terrible.

Dipper wasn't sure how long he stayed curled against the door, just that his throat was sore and he was very tired. Ford's yelling had moved from the hallway to downstairs, now muffled by the flooring. At some point Stan had come home to all this. Dipper could hear the two downstairs. Stan's own shouting only adding to the rising tension of the shack.

Dipper felt numb, emotionally and physically. His socks were wet and cold, and quite frankly the floor was uncomfortable. He sighed and let go of the doorknob. His knuckled popped as they flexed, still tight. He could still feel the metal against his skin.

Dipper had to push himself up from the floor, one hand on the wall. He was sure if he let go, he'd end up face first on the floor. On shaking legs. Dipper wobbled towards his bed. Along the way he kicked off his boots and pulled his wet socks from his feet. They were left in a scattered trail across the floor. He collapsed onto the thin mattress, defeated and exhausted. Pulling the blankets up around his face, Dipper tried to block out what remained of the daylight. For a long while he tossed and turned under the covers waiting for sleep to calm him down.

Hours passed and night fell, bringing the shack to an uncomfortable silence. Dipper spent that time tangled in his blankets, wanting the right pressure around him to be someone else, holding him while he dreamed. In this time, nothing woke him, not the knock on his door from Stan merely looking to apologize, nor the call for him to come down for supper.

It wasn't until late in the night that Dipper finally opened his eyes to the room. There was a haze in his eyes that left him feeling lucid and heavy, like he was sinking through his bed, buried alive under the pressure of his blankets. He was sure he was dreaming even as his eyes blinked back sleep. The small room was bathed in a surreal blue moonlight. The brightness chased away shadow and left behind streaks of highlight across the wood floor and walls. There was a fresh scent to the room that perked Dipper's nose. It was sharp and cold.

Dipper sat up slowly staring toward the window. A gentle breeze was blowing in from outside, rustling the curtains as it swept into the room. He didn't recall it ever being opened. Blaming it on the wind, he pushed the covers back to stand. The wood floor was shockingly cold against his bare feet and he hissed a sound of discomfort.

No sooner did Dipper stand that he found himself frozen in place, stalk still and pale. His chest seized tightly, wanting to clench around his heart in a death grip. He told himself to be calm, that he should be use to these illusions and dreams. Still, he wished they would stop and leave him alone. Trying to chase away the dream, Dipper blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear the hallucination from his sleep soaked mind. However, the sight he was met with didn't change. Not the broad shoulders clad in a dark coat, or the blonde hair that became tussled by the breeze. Half hidden by the blowing curtains, he stood there watching him with an unmatched calculative eye. Dipper swallowed thickly, feeling like he was choking on a breath he hadn't meant to hold in.

He did nothing but stand there, content to linger by the open window. The light pooling in through the glass shone across his face, a face Dipper had been so desperate to see again but cursed all the same. The tanned skin looked paler in the moonlight, smoother and cold. The little etched scars across his skin were hardly notable this way. That perfect face didn't belong to a man who lived through a fiery crash. It was impossible, and Dipper had to remind himself of that. This was a dream, he thought firmly trying to convince himself.

It was another painfully realistic dream, taunting him with visions and false comfort. Like every time, Dipper was weak to the illusions and gave himself over to them, wanting so badly to believe they were real. He wanted to run to him, to touch him, and be consumed by him. Dipper's lips parted, breathing out his name into the quiet room.

“Bill...”

“Don't look so surprised, Pine Tree. I said I've always come for you. Haven't I proven that yet?” Bill's voice was like smoke, gentle but husky and dark. He pushed himself from the wall, standing at full height. His long coat moved around him as he stepped forward.

Dipper noted the slight hobble and strained motion of his walk. The way Bill favoured one of his legs to the other. He glanced down. Half hidden by the long coat, Bill walked with a sleek black cane. It supported him, balancing his weight evenly to ease each steps. It looked to be painful, even though there was no sign of discomfort on his face. Bill stood, proud and sturdy in the middle of his room.

Dipped moved forward to meet him half way. Every step, it was harder to contain how he felt. To the point that when they stood no more than a foot apart, Dipper flung his arms out and wrapped them about Bill's shoulders. Like every dream he had, Dipper pulled him in for a long kiss, refusing to be rejected or stopped. He grabbed tightly at Bill's leather coat, trying to pull him closer still. A pleasant weight was placed over his lower back, a strong hand helping to hold their bodies together. Dipper sighed happily, finally content enough to let the anger and sadness slip from memory and relax him.

He kissed and sank his teeth into Bill's lip, greedy to taste the man he'd missed so dearly. Each one was returned with equal need and passion. Their time spent apart had left them both desperate and starved for the sensation of touch. Even if it was a dream, even if he were slowly going mad, Dipper wanted to experience every second. So much so that he cursed the sunrise and wished it would never come.

Dipper pulled away from Bill's lips, moving along his skin to trail kisses over his sharp jawline. He kissed at every scar and dent that he passed over. The skin was cold but grew warmer as he worked his way below Bill's ear. Dipper licked a small stripe up the side of his neck. A poorly restrained groan hit his ear in response. Dipper missed that noise.

“Bill, I-uhm... this needs to...” Dipper started to say. He wasn't sure what to say, if he should apologize or beg for forgiveness, or to thank him. There was too much he wanted to get off his chest but it all remained trapped inside him with no way to come out. His head dropped to Bill's shoulder. Dipper closed his eyes and tried to think. The arm around his waist tightened, comforting and warm.

“Yes, Pine Tree?” Bill asked, breathing against his ear as he whispered.

“How?” Dipper got out. It wasn't exactly what he wanted to say. It wasn't even what mattered to him. But it merely slipped out, meaningless and dumb. He shook his head, rejecting his own statement. “This is a dream...”

“Is it now? Well, if this was a dream, I sure as hell wouldn't be limping.”

Dipper gave him a light punch to the chest, nothing that would ever hurt. If anything, Bill only started to chuckle over the small outburst of annoyance.

“Shut up...” His fingers started to rub into the spot he'd hit. The chest beneath his hand was so solid and real, moving with each long breath. “How are you alive?” he asked finally, then sighed. “Why am I?”

Bill sunk his fingers into Dipper's hip. There was an edge to his voice that came out bitter and strained. “I assume Ford's brother was there to take you away. My memory is a little broken of the fire, so I can't give you a full answer there...”

“Stan,” Dipper filled in for him. “He found me. And Tad... he-I-”

“What did he do to you, Dipper?”

The urgency struck a cord in Dipper's heart. There was a possessiveness laced through his voice that spoke volumes, murderous promises of jealousy, but also genuine care and protectiveness. It was subtle, so deeply buried that could have easily gone unnoticed. Dipper leaned up and placed a little kiss to Bill's jaw. The small action seemed to have a calming effect, the arm loosening around him because of it. Dipper didn't want that though, he wanted to be held tighter and for Bill to never let go.

The memory of Tad scared him to think of let alone talk about. Dipper shook his head, not wanting to answer. But Bill wasn't someone you say no to, and Dipper couldn't even try.

“I shot him,” Dipper admitted quietly. He looked up to see a surprised expression on Bill's face, one that quickly broke out into a wide grin before the man laughed aloud. Dipper hushed him, scared that someone would hear him, dream or not.

“Pine Tree,” Bill sang at him, amazed. He kissed his forehead where his unique birthmark was hidden by curling bangs. “You delightful little Sapling. Did you really?”

Dipper's whole body shook, the phantom weight of the gun in his hands. He stammered over his words but Bill was there to calm him. Kisses were trailed along his face and down the side of his neck. It sent a rush of blood through him that made his head spin and fall back, accepting every touch. His feelings of guilt washed away, replaced with different emotions. He moaned louder than he expected and it startled him.

Bill kept whispering praises in his ear, encouraging words of how he was so proud, that Dipper acted so wonderfully. A hand came up to hold his cheek. Dipper turned to place a kiss along rough skin. The texture was curious, coarse and dry. He opened his eyes to look at the palm. The tanned skin in the moonlight looked reddened and cracked, what had been merely calloused finger tips were now ripped and rocky, unfamiliar and strange. Dipper took hold of Bill's hand, touched each finger with interest. Scars littered the tips, dimpling the skin where blisters had pealed back layers of burned skin.

“It's not as bad as it looks,” Bill lied. Even in the dark Dipper could see the scars travelled up his wrist to disappear under the sleeve of his coat. “A little fire wasn't going to take me out, Pine Tree.”

The bravado and confidence was solid in him but Dipper knew it had to be all for show. Bill came close to death, but laughed it off in order to deny his own mortality and uncanny luck.

“Did you think I was dead?” Dipper asked. Stan and him had gotten lucky when they made it off the ship. He knew of the fire, the explosion. Ford had told him what happened – the fighting, the fire – in grotesque detail. At the time Dipper had been fully convinced Bill was dead. Out of everyone on board, Bill had been in the middle of the flame, exposed to the full brunt of heat and damage. It seemed so impossible and fantastical to think anyone could survive.

“It crossed my mind... I had imagined Stanford came to steal you away, since you weren't were I left you.” Bill stiffened, his fingers twitching in Dipper's own. “I was not trying to get us both burned to death, I assure you. Still... if it had come to it, I would have killed myself sole to spite Ford. Your death would have merely been by proxy. For that, I apologize.”

“But... I am alive, and I thought you were dead. You are dead... Ford said you were dead.”

“Ford's an idiot,” Bill corrected with a derisive snort.

“All this time I thought you were dead...”

“I thought showing up in your room was enough to prove otherwise. Though you have to know, being dead wouldn't be enough to stop me from coming after you. I'd find a way.”

Dipper wanted to argue. As amazing as Bill was, he wasn't magical. Instead, he kissed him, pulling back too quick to be given one in return.

“You... you saved me. You left me alive.” He couldn't stop the small smile that touched his lips.

“I wasn't about to let Tad hurt you.” Bill turned his Sapling in his arms and held him close, miming their embrace that night on the ship. Dipper willingly tilted his head back, partaking in Bill's charade. Fingers wrapped around his neck in a loose grip.

“It's amazing what a little darkness can hide,” Bill said, his right hand moving in a fluid motion to swipe an invisible knife over Dipper's throat. He clicked his tongue and gave a short laugh. “You are a delicate creature, my dear. Too easily scared.”

Dipper pressed back into Bill's chest, ignoring the playful insult. The hand about his neck let go, twisting about in front of his face. Bill breath tickled his ear as he spoke softly, lips dragging over the lobe in an almost kiss.

“I have scars because of you now.”

Along his left hand, half deformed by the burns, was a long scar that ran from wrist to fingertip. The white mark wasn't lost completely in the rippled skin due to its width and length. Dipper smiled seeing it. He decided it was his favourite of all Bill's scars, because it was made for him. Bill bled for him and saved his life.

Dipper took Bill's hand again in his own, bringing it close to kiss each knuckle with a tenderness. At the pinkie, he uncurled it. Dipper wrapped his lips around the finger, giving it a long lick. The skin had an odd texture on his tongue but it wasn't unpleasant. He gave a gentle suck before taking the finger from his mouth.

“Run away with me, Pine Tree,” Bill whispered in his ear, voice hot with arousal and heat. His free hand held the thin body closer, squeezing at bony hips. “I can take you far away from here. I'll take you across the world: France, Norway, the damn South Pole if you want. Just come with me.”

“Bill,” the answer fell short on Dipper lips. With every ounce of his soul, he wanted to saw 'yes'. He wanted to be taken far away like Bill promised him. But guilt and fear held him back, making him pause. He'd be leaving family and friends, a rational life where he had a home. He'd be disappointing everyone he knew, leaving them in the night without a word. Ford would follow in mad pursuit, vengeful and murderous. They would never be without the made acting as their shadow. It was cruel and heartless.

“I know you want this. Say the word and be mine.”

Dipper wanted to say nothing but 'yes'. For a long time he didn't answer and it made Bill tense.

“I could just take you by force, Pine Tree. So, don't test my patience,” Bill hissed at him. “I will throw you over my shoulder and steal you from them.”

“But you won't... Not tonight.”

Dipper turned around to face Bill, his mind still not fully made up. He needed to think and he couldn't with that golden eye staring so deeply through him. So, instead of thinking at all, Dipper kissed him again. It was a hard, reassuring kiss that made them both want more. Rushed and sloppy, daring to be over far too quickly for either of them as lips parted and teeth knocked together.

Bill's coat was pushed off his shoulders, falling to the floor in a pile. The unmistakable clatter of hidden armoury rattled as it hit the hardwood. Dipper didn't care about it making noise. He didn't care if anyone heard them. Hell, he dared Ford or Stan to break his door down and catch them this way.

He wanted Bill bare, wanted to feel him from head to toe. Piece by piece, buttons and buckles were undone and left to fall into the fabric gathered at their feet. They stripped each other until nothing was keeping them apart.

The cold in the room went ignored. Even as snow was gently blown in off the windowsill, the two fell to the floor. They laid among their discarded clothes. Hair was pulled. Teeth found patches of unmarked skin to bite. It was clumsy, inelegant and perfect. Every move was greedy and selfish, trying to take what was needed from the other before it was lost to them in the day light.

Their bodies became slick with sweat as they grabbed at each other, desperate to become reacquainted with every inch. Bill favoured the parts that clothing wouldn't cover. He was more than happy to leave Dipper with large purple marks chewed into the skin of his neck knowing full well they would show above any shirt collar. They would stand out proudly against his pale skin for the world to see.

Each roll of their hips brought them closer together. Their breathing mixing as they exchanged kisses. They panted from both pleasure and exertion. Bill muttered filthy words into his ear and spurned him on.

Dipper moved in Bill's lap, eager to be worth risking the night together. He wanted Bill to moan louder, to find pleasure in him. Maybe then he would be true to his word and Bill would still want Dipper once the sun came up and their lust was sated.

Moans were muffled by lips, or the palm of Bill's hand when Dipper couldn't hold back.

Neither of them wanted it to end. But time couldn't be held off, and the sun rose the following morning and lit up the room with its bright unholy light.

When Dipper woke up to the early sunshine, he was alone in bed. He sat up quickly, confused to find that there was no one beside him. The blankets were thrown back. Dipper found himself mostly redressed and intact. Even as he looked about, the room was undisturbed from the night before, as if no one had actually been there. The window was closed firmly, no evidence of snow anywhere on the floor or rug.

Dipper rubbed at his face tiredly, wondering hollowly if he had been dreaming once again. He'd question his sanity if it wasn't so early in the morning. He was unsure of the exact time as he rose from the bed. The room was too bright, mocking him as it shone in through the window. Dipper dragged himself over to where the curtains were drawn back. Outside, the snow was melting off the sill. He sighed, disappointed.

Dipper dragged his feet across the floor and left the room. Reverting to a structured routine, he went down the hall to wash and make himself more acceptable. Eventually he would have to face his uncles. After yesterday it was going to be loud and argumentative. He wasn't looking forward to Ford scolding in lengths. Fortunately it was earlier than he expected. The house was still, no noise coming from downstairs. His uncles must still be deeply in sleep in their respective rooms. The only noise to be heard was the distance echo of the grandfather clock as it ticked passed each second of the day.

Dipper washed his face with warm water, content for a moment to stand with his eyes closed. He sighed, wondering if this was to be his life. The heavy weight of depression chilled his heart. Day after day, the boring monotony of social life and constant supervision. He hated to think of it. The thought made him want to do the unthinkable, to wrap something tightly around his neck and hang from the attic rafters. Placing his hands on the side of the bathroom sink, he took a long breath.

He looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror, something he avoided as much as possible. He looked back at himself, ghostly pale and ill. His curly hair was knotted and unwashed. It was the face of pure misery. This was how his family saw him, barely alive, bitter and aimless. Dipper huffed, disliking the sight. It was awful and ugly. The fact he could recognize himself fulled him with so much hatred and anger. He wanted to break the mirror into pieces, to violently punch through it and shatter himself in the process.

Adjusting the collar of his shirt, the fabric parted. Against the paleness of his throat, Dipper could see the fresh purple bloom of bruising. The blotches were numerous, blending together in a ink blot of purple, rimmed in defused yellow tones. Lingering teeth marks were still imprinted by sharp teeth. Dipper touched them and found it tender. His heart fluttered lively and quick.

He tore at the shirt's buttons, ripped it up over his head when they became stuck. All across his chest were similar marks, possessive little brandings made by Bill's hungry mouth. Nail tracks ran in thin lines all down his sides and over his hips. Dipper swallowed before licking his lips. He swore under his breath, unable to believe his own eyes. But it was there, printed across his skin. Something inside him snapped and he ran from the bathroom in a hurry.

Dipper ran back to his bedroom. In a flurry of movement he grabbed warm cloths, desperate to dress as quickly as he could. He grabbed a thick scarf and pulled on his best boots. He tried not to think, less he talk himself out of what he was about to do. Guilt was a passing fancy, but not something that would keep him from his choice. As he pulled on a coat, he decided to leave the room undisturbed. He didn't need anything from his old life, nothing was sentimental enough to him to pocket.

However, before he left, Dipper stopped by his desk to write on a piece of paper. It would never be enough, he knew it would never be enough and Dipper was simply going to have to accept that. Only a simple apology, no explanation or clue to find him. He dropped the pen, whispering a small goodbye into the room around him.

He left then. The shack was quiet, making Dipper tiptoe down the stairs. There was no other noise except for the grandfather clock striking quarter passed the hour. The sudden sound made his heart skip a beat out of panic. He expected to be caught at any second by one of his uncles waking up. He quickly went through to the kitchen.

Dipper saw the breakfast table where they would eat, when Stan would make him tea or coffee. Another silent apology fell from his lips as he turned his back on his past.

At the back door, Dipper held his breath. His hands shook as he unlocked the door. There was a soft click as the lock retracted in its casing. Something so small sounded like it would echo through the empty kitchen. There was a little hesitation as Dipper waited to hear some form of movement down the hall, but there was nothing. With a slow press of his hand, the door opened.

Slowly Dipper took his first steps onto the porch. He breathed in the fresh winter air, felt the slight wind brush his face.

And just like that... he was gone.

Dipper ran as fast a he could. His feet carried him across the yard in long strides. Snow crunched under his boots. He kicked it up and sent snow flying as he ran. The treeline grew close. But he wouldn't slow down, not yet, not until he was deep into the woods and far away. Dumper jumped the yard's low standing fence which had partially collapsed under the weight of the snowbank.

Within mere minutes, he disappeared from the yard and vanished into the trees. Other than some rushed tracks in the snow, it was like he had never been there. He was only a passing memory.

For a long while Dipper continued to ran. Something scared him to slow down for even a moment, like if he stopped, someone would grab him and drag him back home. His legs hurt from the strain, not use to the aggressive physical exercise but even when he stumbled over roots and downed branches, he got back up and kept going.

The woods were like a maze, full of twists and turns that promised to disorientate and confuse anyone passing through. Dipper felt himself becoming lost, trying to find a path among the tangle of branches and trunks. There was nothing but the distance sky line through the trees. He chased the rising sun following the bright yellow light through the bare branches overhead. It shone blindingly bright, catching on the ice slick bark.

Dipper huffed, tired and out of breath. He slowed to a brisk walk. His hard breath came out as puffs of wispy clouds on the cold air.

It wasn't until he found a clearing in the trees that Dipper stopped. He was panting and ready to drop to his knees from exhaustion. But it was a glorious feeling, the blood pumping through his veins, the feeling of being alive. He felt free. Dipper smiled wide as he started to chuckle, quietly at first but it grew into a hearty laugh that shook his shoulders. He couldn't remember a time where he felt so carefree and happy. He ran his fingers through his messy hair, pushing the curls from his eyes.

Dipper relaxed, turning his face up to the sky. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind whistling through the trees. There was a soft crunch behind him, something slowly moving through the snow. Dipper recognized the sound of heavy boots, taking easy and rhythmic as they came closer. He didn't panic or turn to face his companion because he welcomed them to join him. He dropped his hands to his sides.

The warm mass of a body pressed into him, resting a weight against his back. Two black clad arms wrapped around him in a gentle embrace. A fond kiss was placed along the shell of his ear, soon after followed by a smug voice that sounded far too entertained about them meeting like this.

“Glad you could join me, Pine Tree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I guess that's all! Some things were left up to the imagination and other things explained. I really hope everyone is satisfied with the ending. As much as I like being a downer, I wanted there to be some happy at the end.
> 
> Ah! I'm overwhelmed! This story took so long and I worked pretty hard on it! I'm actually so sad to end it... I loved hearing all your comments, they meant so much to me and made me do happy! This has been the nicest fandom to write a fanfic for. You guys are great!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a more stylized story, so it's pretty wordy and fairly long. Also the first Gravity Falls fanfic I've ever worked on. Yay me~  
Hope some one out there enjoys it and looked forward to chapter two as much as I do.
> 
> Again, as always, sorry for bad spelling and my continuous jump between Canadian/American spelling of certain words because of auto correct.


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